


when the dust settles

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Holmescest Works [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Blackmail, Case Fic, Developing Relationship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Dates, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Romance, Sexual Tension, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Whodunit?, holmescest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:35:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27541684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: Sherlock finds himself floundering after the events of Sherrinford. He opts to stay with his brother and tries to figure out his life while getting swept up in a new case.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Holmescest Works [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745683
Comments: 65
Kudos: 122





	1. Settling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).



> Hm. Not quite sure how to rate this, considering I have 50k words and no explicit smut. Or to tag this without giving things away.
> 
> The mystery is a whodunnit, where Mycroft and Sherlock try and solve it together. I've finished writing this part. It came out better than expected which is why I feel confident posting this right now. I think I will leave the explanation at that. 
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> And of course, thanks to LadyGlinda for all her encouragement <3

Sherlock looks distastefully at his chicken pot pie. 

Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen is quiet except for the nerve-grating sounds of John’s fork tines and his knife blade scraping loudly against the bottom of his plate. Mrs. Hudson is in a somber mood, clearly pondering the damages the patience grenade had done to the upstairs flat. 

The mood feels oppressive, reminding Sherlock of the dreary days of his drugged youth, how everything seems grey, apathetic and dull. So dull. He feels like his entire life has been upended. 

His beloved pet which had been a boy! A murderous sister! A forgotten childhood! A fancy estate where they had all grown up! Oh and...

“God. I should just call in sick tomorrow, Mrs. Hudson. I think I might have caught a cold down there. In that well. It was freezing and damp! I almost died! To think of it! My poor Rosie would have been without a father. And she is already without a mother…” 

An image of Mycroft crosses Sherlock’s mind. In that godforsaken room where Eurus had kept them in to play ‘The Final Problem’. 

> “This is my fault…” 
> 
> A rueful smile. A smile that Sherlock hadn’t seen on Mycroft’s face since well never. His brother proceeds to explain a short conversation the East Wind and Moriarty had so long ago. Five minutes. Five minutes had changed all their fates. Unbelievable that Mycroft had committed such a lapse in judgement. It had seemed so unlike him. All-knowing British Government of a big brother. Literally Big Brother. There had been a wistful look in Mycroft’s eyes, darkening with some foreign emotion that Sherlock cannot discern. So different from those cool icy blues of their normal state. There is regret in his voice. 
> 
> “Goodbye, brother mine.” His hands slowly move back, away from Sherlock’s view. “No flowers… by request.” 

“And who knows what other skeletons the Holmes family have hidden in their closets. Or in their high-security facilities! It’s only cost me Mary, dearest Mary –”

Sherlock throws down his fork with a clatter, breaking John’s monologue. He can’t bear this anymore. There is something itching deep inside of him, wanting to burst. 

And it does. 

“For fuck’s sake, John – do you think I wanted an unhinged family member to show up? That I wanted her to throw you in a well to drown like Victor did? That I wanted your wife to jump in front of Norbury’s bullet? Yeah, so you spent a few hours in a well. You suffered. So? We all suffered. I did everything I could to save our friendship. Planned your bloody wedding. Set up some excitement following your wife’s death to get you out of your shell. Liked your wife for your sake. Only saved your bloody life from Moriarty’s assassins –” 

At the look of confusion in John’s eyes, Sherlock continues, his words an avalanche. 

“Oh, that jump off Bart’s all those years ago? If I didn’t do so, Moriarty would have had you all killed. You. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. You are the only one of the three who refused to listen to my apologies. The explanation behind the trick when I came back. I had to lie to you, John – because you are a bad pretender. Moriarty’s remaining men would have figured it out if you had known. I… I always wanted to do right by you, John, and sometimes I might not have done everything right… oh you know what. Fuck this. Fuck all of this.” 

Sherlock pushes his chair back with a sound that causes everyone to wince, and he stands up. 

Grabbing his coat, he walks straight out of the flat without another word. 

*** 

_ Good god, what was that? _ Sherlock wonders to himself as he walks the streets of London. It is a brisk spring evening. It’s not like him to  _ explode _ in that kind of manner, but today is a special kind of day. A long day. One that he wishes had never happened. He has never felt so unmoored before. His thoughts are all over the place. And hell! His emotions too. As his own flat lies in tatters upstairs at 221B Baker Street, he feels like his mind is in the same state. 

He doesn’t even know where to start! 

Emotions. If you had asked him a few years ago, Sherlock would have flat out denied that he had such inclinations. Oh no. He’s a functional sociopath. The perfect rational thinking machine. It’s only a lie. He has lied countless times throughout his life, but lying to oneself is a different story altogether. The past decades of his life had been constructed on lies. Ever since Victor’s death. 

He closes his eyes as a particularly sharp gust of wind tears through him. The sky is darkening. Petrichor lingers in the air. It’s going to rain soon. 

_ Where to? _

The original plan had been to go sleep at John’s place after dinner. But considering that outburst, perhaps he has some unresolved issues with John. Many unresolved issues. He had sacrificed so much for his friend over the last few months… hell years. Sentiment. Pah. It had changed him. He barely recognizes himself anymore. The tatters of the old Sherlock willing to do anything to grease the wheels of John’s life. Happy to throw time, health and reason without a thought to achieve this objective. 

John’s words at dinner had rankled him in a way he had never noticed before. He had thought their relationship after the events of Culverton had healed. Some of that easy-going camaraderie that he had enjoyed in the early part of this decade had returned, but just sometimes… John will say something and it’s clear that his resentment of Sherlock never went away. For faking his death. For Mary’s premature death. For other things that are beyond his control. There’s too much hurt between them. 

And yes, John might have shot that cabbie for him back in 2010; he might have been willing to do anything for Sherlock then, but now? Probably not. 

It is not a reciprocal relationship where both parties have mutual regard for each other.

Ugh. His head is starting to hurt. Matters of sentiment is  _ not _ his area. 

_ Where could he go then? _ Molly’s? 

Fuck. That’s totally out of the question. The ashes of that ‘I love you’ still sit bitterly against his tongue. He could still hear Molly’s voice in his head, compounding the migraine that is currently in progress. That soft ‘I love you’ that had slipped through her lips. Her face so close to the screen, as if she’s trying to kiss him. He’s not in a state to love anyone right now, and all he has for her are friendly feelings. Well, that is if he’s capable of love in the first place… functional sociopaths do not love anyone. 

Wait. He’s just established that he isn’t one.

Mycroft comes to mind again. His brother, prim and proper, in the face of adversity. His countenance during that whole sordid ‘problem’ with Molly though. Sherlock had caught it for a brief instant. How he breathed. The evidence of  _ something _ in his facial expression. Anguish? Perhaps due to how slow Sherlock had been at pulling those words out of Molly? It had been like pulling teeth. Or more specifically molars. He is the ‘stupid one’ after all, as big brother likes to remind him at times. And certainly, he is the stupid child amongst big brother and little sister. 

But that plane in the sky… 

Is that not his answer? Mycroft? He had sent Lestrade over to check on him. 

> Lestrade walks over to him. “I just spoke to your brother.”
> 
> “How is he?” Sherlock asks, feeling the vestiges of concern (an unfamiliar feeling indeed!) crawl through his marrow. 
> 
> The copper sighs a little. “He’s a bit shaken up. Found him in her old cell.”
> 
> “What goes around comes around.” John had muttered. 
> 
> Lestrade starts to walk away after uttering something. Sherlock doesn’t catch it, because John’s words had struck something within Sherlock’s mind. Kicking up a cloud of something currently swirling in his mind that Sherlock doesn’t quite understand. 
> 
> But Sherlock – acting on his uncharacteristic concern – calls him back. 
> 
> “Oh, um. Mycroft – make sure he’s looked after. He’s not as strong as he thinks he is.”
> 
> “Yeah, I will take care of it.” The copper nods.
> 
> “Thanks, Greg.” 
> 
> Ah, the surprise on the DI’s face…

God. Why didn’t he do it himself? No doubt Mycroft would have given Lestrade a tight little smile, say that everything is alright and shut the door in front of him. 

Neither of them are good with  _ feelings. _ Sherlock had been pondering this over dinner. This isn’t how he normally operates. He knows that. He would say he preferred Mycroft’s meddling arse  _ out  _ of his life. But perhaps… that’s not true?  _ What is this? What the fuck did little sister do? _ He’s physically unharmed, but he feels like he’s bleeding internally. 

His feet are already carrying him to Mycroft’s anyway, and he groans when the first drop of wetness hits his cheek. Rain. Of bloody course. 

This is England after all. 

He fumbles for his wallet. Nada. He had misplaced it during the chaos of the day. Cabbie isn’t an option then. He could take one and make Mycroft pay for it, but big brother isn’t probably fit for interaction with the real world. 

Good god, caring is indeed a disadvantage. 

Blast!

***

The ringing of the doorbell jars Mycroft out of his stupor. 

_ What now? _

Sherlock’s Detective Inspector had already darkened his front door, and as much as he had appreciated Sherlock’s uncharacteristic ‘caring’, he could really do without right now. He just wants to be alone. To wallow in his… well, guilt. 

His failures. 

The doorbell rings again. And again. 

It’s incessant and it threatens to destroy the lovely buzz that he has going on after indulging in tumblerfuls of his best scotch. Sighing, Mycroft attempts to get up, feeling rather like the room is starting to spin. Okay. Perhaps he might be a little bit drunk. It’s been a long time since he’s allowed himself to let go like this.

He doesn’t even bother to look at his surveillance system before fumbling with the lock. It could be an assassin waiting for him outside, and he wouldn’t even care right now. He had made his peace earlier with death, and he… just doesn’t care one way or the other. 

“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s unexpected voice is registered in his alcohol-muddled brain when the door is finally cracked open. 

_ Dear god. _ Sherlock observes. 

Mycroft looks absolutely awful. He reeks of a high-end bar. Big brother is rather unsteady on his feet and Sherlock grabs his arm before he could lose his balance. He puts his observation into words. “You look awful.” Sherlock pushes the door further open, slips inside and shuts it firmly. 

“What… what are you doing here?” Mycroft blinks at his brother in disbelief. Okay. Maybe he did drink too much, if he’s hallucinating his brother. He could buy that Sherlock had asked one of his  _ friends _ to check up on him, but not little brother himself. 

But yet, he knows this is real. His brother’s hand feels solid around his arm.

Sherlock grips onto Mycroft’s waist when he starts to sway with his arm. “Good god, how many bottles of liquor have you had, brother dear?” 

“Not enough. And… Sherlock… you are… wet.” 

“Thank you very much for noticing, Mycroft.” Sherlock walks his brother back to the living room, getting water all over the floor. “In case you haven’t realized, it is raining. Then again, I think you are not quite in the right frame of mind to notice such trivial things. And, big brother mine – that’s  _ quite  _ enough scotch for you.” 

Sherlock quickly snatches away the almost finished bottle and the tumbler once Mycroft is safely situated on the couch before his brother’s hand could reach for the alcohol again. 

Mycroft glares at him, but Sherlock pays him no mind, walking to put his brother’s poison of choice safely out of reach. He hurries to remove his drenched coat, and hangs it on the ornate and possibly antique coat stand that sits next to the front door in the foyer. He goes to the kitchen and gets his brother a glass of water. 

“Why… are you here, Sherlock? Should you not be at… John’s?” 

Mycroft watches his brother’s face carefully. Well, as much as he could under this context. There’s a hard look on Sherlock’s countenance. He holds himself stiffly. They’ve quarreled then. Sherlock and his doctor. Reluctantly, he sips at the water that Sherlock had brought him. He scrutinizes little brother. There are no bruises or other blemishes that mark his person. 

Sherlock looks back at him after a moment, having noticed the scrutiny of his person. His face falls somewhat. “Is that really necessary? John isn’t like that…”

Mycroft returns Sherlock’s hard look. His brother really has terrible taste in partners. And in people. He remembers Sherlock’s university set back in his Oxford days. The likes of Wilkes and his band of merry men. 

“I deserved it.” Sherlock continues. “I did deceive him badly. And, because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, Mary –”

“God, Sherlock –” Mycroft interrupts, not wanting to hear  _ her  _ name under his roof. Just hearing it sobers him up more than the water had. “You deserved none of that. No violence is justified. Not for what you’ve done. Little brother…” He trails off, feeling a sentiment rise to his chest that he hasn’t felt in a long while. Sherlock had come to him for once. Voluntarily. Even though he would prefer having Sherlock come at another time than witness this inebriated state of his. “You should take a shower. A warm one. Before you catch a cold. It’s been a long day.”

“You should go to bed too, Mycroft. I wasn’t kidding when I said you looked awful.” Sherlock gratefully grasps onto the change in topic, not wanting to contemplate his relationship with John any further. 

“Spare bedroom. Two rooms down from mine. There should be some clothes there that should fit you. And all the things that you need. You can… stay as long as you need to, Sherlock. And you can write a list of things that you require, I can procure them for you after I return from work –” Mycroft grimaces. It’s going to be bloody unpleasant tomorrow. The Prime Minister. Sir Edwin. Lady Smallwood. They are going to need a full account of everything. And the admission that he, Mycroft, is far from the perfect being that they think he is. Oh, there will be a price to pay. Today isn’t the end of this sordid affair.

“Work? You will be hungover tomorrow!”

“I can’t get out of this, Sherlock. There are people who need answers.” And the fate of our sister hangs in the balance. Mycroft keeps this to himself. Slowly, he gets up – his body protesting with every move. “I should go to bed. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”

Wordlessly, Sherlock follows Mycroft upstairs, watching carefully should Mycroft need assistance. His brother doesn’t. 

“Good night, brother mine.” Mycroft says gently, before disappearing off into his own bedroom. 

***

Before Mycroft leaves for work the next day, he quietly walks down the hallway to the spare bedroom. He cracks the door just a tad, and looks in. 

His brother had neglected to shut the curtains, but today is the sort of dreary rainy day that would not offer sunlight that would rudely awaken one from their slumber. Sherlock is curled up on his side, his respirations soft. His curls obscuring most of his face from view. 

It’s so strange to see him so still. So peaceful. Without the influence of drugs.

It hadn’t been a dream then.

Fortified by the view, he prepares himself for the day ahead. 

***

Mycroft was long gone by the time Sherlock had woken up. It’s been a long time since he’s slept for so long. There had been no texts from John, but one from Molly.

_ Sherlock, we should talk. xoxo Molly _

_ No we shouldn’t. _ Sherlock had firmly put his phone down without replying. 

By the time he had made it downstairs, breakfast was waiting for him in the oven. Toast. Scrambled eggs. Tomatoes and rashers. He found some milk. His brother had even left him a new leather-bound wallet with money in it, having deduced that Sherlock had misplaced his somewhere. 

A warm fuzzy feeling had spread throughout him, knowing that Mycroft still cares for him. 

He hadn’t been a duty then. Sherlock had realized this morning. 

Mycroft had kept a room for him, just in case he should ever need it and filled it with things that he would require. Expensive clothes of his preference. From silky dressing gowns to designer suits. His toiletries and hair products. A laptop and a charger for his phone. And more. He hadn’t looked through the contents in its entirety yet.  _ How come he had never known this? _ But of course, he would have never stayed at his brother’s place voluntarily until now. The care and worry in Mycroft’s irises when he had checked Sherlock over in case John had decked him again. 

He had received another text over at breakfast.

_ We should talk about the Garrideb case. All three of us. You, John, me. Perhaps Baker Street at noon? GL _

That’s where he is now. 

Sitting at Mrs. Hudson’s dining table. With a solemn looking John who refuses to make eye-contact with him. Lestrade completely missing the stiffness between them. They go through the case, careful not to spill out the old secrets that Lestrade doesn’t know. But the copper does know about Eurus now, and what she had done to John. And even Molly. But not about the final problem. Moriarty’s laugh and his  _ tick-tock _ still reverberates in Sherlock’s mind, and it’s hateful. To think that Moriarty had given him such a thrill all those years ago. 

What had seemed fun then no longer seems fun now. It depresses him. 

When Lestrade finally gets up and leaves, having acquired all the information he needed for his report, he is left alone with John. 

“Where did you go yesterday?” John inquires, still not looking at him.

“Bolthole.” Sherlock sips at his tea nonchalantly. 

For some reason, he doesn’t want John knowing where he had gone. He doesn’t want to talk about Mycroft with John. His ‘friend’ had done the decent thing yesterday and tried to talk Sherlock out of shooting Mycroft (of course, John never sees the big picture) but the words:

> “What goes around, comes around." 

do not sit well with him. 

Sherlock is feeling rather defensive over his brother. It’s a strange place to be in. He will have to pull at this tendril of feeling later. There’s something lurking under the surface in his mind. Memories. Memories that he had long forgotten (deleted) but are now bubbling beneath his conscience, wanting to be acknowledged. 

He had been right yesterday that he’s bleeding internally. Not blood, but the vault of everything he had managed to delete over the entire course of his lifetime. The door is still shut somewhat, but things are starting to seep through. This is a metaphor for one of those psychological defenses that psychiatrists and psychologists have come up with to deal with negative experiences. Especially during his formative years. 

God. A shrink would have a field day with him. 

Of course, John has never particularly liked his brother. People generally do not like being kidnapped and taken to strange warehouses, strangely enough. What had that been? An act of brotherly care? Or overreaching and meddling in Sherlock’s life once more? A bit of A and B together? Probably. 

John is silent. He then states after the passage of several minutes. 

“You didn’t answer Molly’s text.”

“What is there even to answer? What could I possibly say, John? I don’t love her. Not the way that she would like me to.”

“I mean… you could try. No one else would possibly put up –”

“No. This is crazy.” Sherlock shakes his head violently. “Absolutely not.” 

“How would you know if you’ve never tried?”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is sharp. “I feel that even though we’ve known each other for so long, it’s as if you don’t know me at all.” Fuck it. He doesn’t even know himself anymore. “And I feel that I don’t know you anymore.” 

It’s true isn’t it? That he had been clinging on to the person that John had been before he had jumped off Bart’s all those years ago? Is it because of… what happened to him all those years ago? The cruel removal of Redbeard from his life? He wipes at his eye. It sounds so stupid, but humans are ultimately simple creatures. After all, motives for crime usually fall within greed, passion, hate and concealment of a previous crime. Seldom he comes across something that doesn’t fall neatly into one of those categories. Moriarty. Chaos. But even then, there is enjoyment. The thrill of a game. 

“What does that even mean?” John’s face is stony. He clenches his fists. “You left me! In case you haven’t forgotten. And Mary –”

_ Oh, so we are finishing this then. _ Sherlock curls his lip distastefully. “I thought you said that you’ve forgiven me.” He interrupts. John had mentioned this before, after Culverton, before Eurus. “It’s clear that you haven’t. I can’t keep bearing the brunt of your anger, John –”

“Angry?” John stands up. His face is flushed. “I am calm. Deadly calm. But you –” He jabs a finger in Sherlock’s direction, using it to emphasize his following statements. “You keep getting high. You keep lying! Shitting all over Mary’s sacrifice –”

“Enough.” Sherlock glares at him. “I see that no rational discussion can be had here. I am sorry, John, I really am. But I can’t take this anymore. There’s nothing I can do to bring your wife back. And if I hadn’t deceived you in the first place, you wouldn’t have been alive to meet her. And had Rosie. Text me when you are ready to talk.” 

He stomps out of the room, taking his coat with him before slamming the door. 

Behind him, John slumps on the table, his hands resting over his forehead in abject dismay. 

***

“I see you are still alive. And in one piece.” Sherlock quips when Mycroft finds him in his room. 

Mycroft surveys the scene. Sherlock is lying on his bed in one of his thinking poses. Dressed in a luxurious blue shirt that Mycroft had always thought would bring out the colours of his eyes perfectly. He had been reluctant to gift that shirt as a present in the past, fearing that little brother would dispose of it. 

It really is a lovely piece of bespoke work. 

“Just barely. The hounds of hell very much enjoy the pursuit and kill of weakened prey.”

By the grimace on Mycroft’s face, Sherlock inquires. “What price must you pay for the follies of yesterday?”

“I am not sure yet.” Mycroft sighs after a long pause. 

So, big brother isn’t telling him. Great. Look what had happened the last time things were kept under wraps! Little sister running around, playing her cruel games. People getting hurt. Killed. 

“I think the answer would be found at Uncle George’s party to be honest.” 

“What?” Sherlock is utterly confused about this turn of conversation. 

“You know, the Earl of Worcester. The closest titled connection we have –”

Sherlock waves his hand lazily. “Mycroft, you know I do not keep track of such things. I mean I don’t even know if we have a Queen or a King!” 

Mycroft sighs. “You’ve met him before, Sherlock.”

“Deleted.” Sherlock dismisses. But he then turns to scrutinize Mycroft. “You need dirt.” 

“Leverage. As in you scratch my back and I will scratch yours.” 

“Fancy blackmail.” 

“Leverage.” Mycroft says firmly. He then changes the topic, knowing little brother’s opinions on the peerage. It’s not that he disagrees, but one has to respect the old traditions. Plus, this whole mess is all his fault, and it should be up to him to clean it up. Personally. He doesn’t know if his plan will pan out, but his presence is required at the annual party that Uncle George throws. Mummy and Father sometimes make an appearance. Sherlock had gone as a child before Eurus had burned down their family estate. “How was your day, brother mine?”

“Could you not deduce it?” Sherlock sighs wearily. 

“You went out. Presumably to give your Detective Inspector an explanation for yesterday. You then talked to your John Watson.”

“Mycroft, he’s not mine.”

“The evidence begs to differ. You’ve done everything for that man, Sherlock.”

“I am beginning to realize this, Mycroft.” Sherlock gives a weak toss of his head. “I think… what happened with Victor has affected my relationship with John.”

“So there is a relationship.”

“A friendship. Or so I still hope.” Sherlock whispers, his last sentence barely audible. “I just… don’t want to be alone, Mycroft.” 

“Sherlock… you are never alone.” Mycroft finally steps into the room from the doorway. Glancing at the bed, he asks. “May I sit?”

Sherlock nods. Mycroft gingerly sits on the bed. 

Big brother had removed his suit and waistcoat, leaving the shirt and his garters. It’s such an old-timey thing to be wearing, but somehow it fits Mycroft. 

Instinctively, Sherlock rests his head on Mycroft’s thigh, feeling that this is an oddly familiar position. His brother’s hand gently reaches downward. As Sherlock doesn’t protest, Mycroft rests his fingers in little brother’s curls. He gently combs through them. 

Sherlock sighs in satisfaction. 

“You liked this when you were a child. When you wanted to be soothed. You would come and find me –” 

It’s been decades since Sherlock had willingly sought him out. Actually that’s not true. Sherlock had asked for help to dispose of Moriarty, and then forgotten all about their partnership upon his return. It had hurt. A little. It had become John Watson this. John Watson that. And it was disheartening to see. He had almost lost his brother in so many ways. 

“Sometimes you would read to me too. I remember.” Sherlock smiles slightly. “We would talk. The stars, Mycroft. We used to observe the night sky. You comforted me then… when Victor was lost. Told me pirate stories, and how Redbeard had been swept to sea. And then… I forgot.”

“Yes. You did forget during your adolescence. I wasn’t home when you did.” Mycroft whispers sadly. “I felt so badly about it, Sherlock…”

“Caring is not an advantage.” 

Mycroft smiles ruefully down at Sherlock. “Now you know why I said that to you.”

“I am sorry –”

“Don’t be sorry, Sherlock. It wasn’t your fault –”

“It wasn’t yours either! It’s Eurus’ –”

“I was the eldest, Sherlock – I should have –”

“Mycroft, you were a child when it all happened. I couldn’t possibly blame you for  _ that. _ If anything, Mummy and Father are to –”

Mycroft interjects. “Perhaps. I don’t know. Maybe I should have told you the truth. But, considering our relationship afterward –”

Sherlock turns his head away, but Mycroft’s fingers still follow.

“I was  _ horrid  _ to you.”

“I know.” Is the simple, yet cutting answer.

“I don’t think… anything I say can erase those years. Apologizing seems too inadequate. Although, I do wish you told me that Moriarty met with Eurus…”

“I have to admit brother, that complacency was my sin. I thought I had it all under control –”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. Control… I am beginning to realize, little brother – is an illusion.”

“Perhaps in regard to matters pertaining to me.”

“I never had control over you. Our relationship is... complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Sherlock states as more flashbacks come to mind. 

> “Well… I suppose there is a heart somewhere inside of me. I don’t imagine it’s much of a target but… why don’t we try for that?”

God how Mycroft had looked at him as the time had ticked away. Sherlock could still feel the heft of the gun in his hand. It had been a long while since he’s fired one. But, like riding a bicycle, it’s easy to pick up again. An unfamiliar ripple of anguish had torn through him, but he had managed to keep his composure. His resolve as he pointed the gun toward his only brother.  _ Wrong! _ His brain had screamed. 

> “Your loss will break my heart…”

And isn’t that the crux of it all? 

What Mycroft had said under the influence last Christmas? That Mycroft cared for him? In a way or depth that he could not fathom over these years? 

Mycroft gives him a sad little smile before standing up, letting Sherlock’s head slide off his thigh in a harmless manner. 

“I think I will turn in early today, brother. I am exhausted.” Mycroft admits, although Sherlock has the idea that big brother wishes to escape before things grow too sentimental. “Did you eat today, brother mine?” He asks with concern, turning back towards Sherlock when he reaches the doorway.

“Plenty.”

Mycroft sees through him immediately. “You haven’t had anything since breakfast…”

“I had a few ginger nuts from Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock amends.

“It’s a wonder how your brain runs on so little.”

“At least –” Sherlock closes his mouth promptly. Diet joke. Old habits die hard, and he knows Mycroft doesn’t like them. He’s lost all interest in hurtful jabs like these. 

“There’s Chinese takeaway in the fridge, Sherlock – should you find yourself inclined to eat.”

Before Sherlock could say another word, Mycroft disappears down the hallway. 

***

Mycroft is hardly at home during the rest of the week. Sherlock spends a lot of it pacing around the house, where the suits of armour seem to stare at him in a judgemental way at his lack of productivity. But there is so much to contemplate. To process.

For one, he keeps finding himself drawn back to that moment. 

That moment where Mycroft had thought he had drawn his last breath. 

There is a message somewhere. The uncharacteristic open expression of his face. His eyes softened by some emotion foreign to Sherlock. There had been affection in them. The ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. 

Big brother had accepted it then. 

At that very instant. 

His death. 

Sherlock clenches his fists. He closes his eyes. 

_Why had Mycroft been so willing to die?_ _Did he really think Sherlock cared so little about him?_ _So little that he thought Sherlock could shoot him in cold blood?_

> “Jim Moriarty thought you would make this choice. He was so excited.” His sister’s voice is almost singsong. 
> 
> “And here we are, at the end of the line. Holmes killing Holmes.”
> 
> More maniacal laughter from a deceased madman.

He had only pointed the gun at Mycroft to buy them more time. Moriarty’s laughter echoes loudly in his head. Eurus’ delight over the whole sickening affair. And then slowly he had turned the gun toward himself. 

> “What are you doing?”

Eurus’ fear that Sherlock would shoot himself. It’s clear now that little sister gives no fucks about his brother. Their brother. The games had all been designed around him at the end. And isn’t that enlightening? 

Memories of his childhood begin to spill forth now. He hears laughter again. But not crazed. No. This is his laughter. The happy laughter of childhood. 

> “Mycie!” Sherlock calls out as he takes the stairs as quickly as his short limbs would carry him. “Mycie! I saw crocuses! It’s spring! The birds are singing! Let’s go outside!”
> 
> Mycroft catches him when he sprints into the room. His brother’s old room, decorated in old but sound furnishings, is filled with books of all sorts. 
> 
> “I’ve got some work to do, Lockie. Maybe tomorrow?” 
> 
> “Mummy’s just finished those little chocolate cakes that you like downstairs.” Sherlock had come armed with information designed to get big brother to leave his comfortable space. “Please, Mycie?”
> 
> Sherlock hadn’t known the significance of it then, but Mycroft had glanced briefly at his belly. Vaguely, he remembers one of Mummy’s ghastly sisters (their Aunt) who had visited the other day, and she had made a comment about his brother’s gut in Mycroft’s hearing. Good god, his brother had been barely an adolescent himself at that time. A fragile age. 
> 
> But at Sherlock’s imploring eyes, Mycroft relents and they had gone downstairs. Sherlock had needed Mycroft’s much taller body to liberate the freshly baked and iced cakes from where Mummy had left them to cool, and they had gone outside in the warm spring weather with their ill-gotten gains. 
> 
> Before they had done so, Sherlock had been aware of eyes upon them. Eurus lingering in the periphery, skulking about as she always does. 

“Sherlock.”

Whipping his head around, Sherlock could see Mycroft walking up the stairs. Big brother is home early. It’s barely four in the afternoon. 

“Why are you sitting on the floor?”

Oh. At some point, Sherlock had been mentally overwhelmed and had taken a seat on the carpeted hallway. 

“Insanity.” Sherlock offers.

“Having one insane sibling is enough, brother mine. Must I deal with another?” Mycroft then frowns after his exasperated response. “You haven’t gone out since your meeting with Lestrade.” 

“I am going crazy, Mycroft. All I can think about is that day in Sherrinford. The memories of our past. How –” Sherlock trails off here, feeling too vulnerable. 

“How what?” Mycroft squats down slightly, looking down at Sherlock. 

“Nevermind.” Sherlock’s voice sounds shaky to his own ears. 

“You should get out more, Sherlock. Hm.” Mycroft thinks for a moment. He offers a distraction. “My five o’clock cancelled on me earlier. We had a reservation at a fashionable Italian restaurant. It’s too late to cancel without penalty, but –”

“You think that we should make use of it…?” 

“That is if you are feeling up to it.” 

Sherlock arches a wary eyebrow at his brother. “This wasn’t a date, wasn’t it? That bailed on you?” 

Mycroft freezes for a few seconds. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea –”

“No. Wait… My… Mycie.” Sherlock looks imploringly at his brother, as he had done in that flashback. 

Good god, has his brother been  _ seeing goldfish  _ out of all things? 

Mycroft looks shocked at the nickname. Sherlock knows Mycroft detests truncations and bastardizations of his name (which Mummy so loves to do). But his brother doesn’t seem to be all that upset.

“Let’s go to dinner.” Sherlock says quietly. “I hope you didn’t have any hopes in regard to –”  _ that loser. _

“Oh no. None of my affairs involve the heart. Just…” Mycroft trails off, looking uncomfortable. Maybe horrified about the corner this conversation has taken.

“Mycroft. Friends with benefits. Really?” Sherlock grins broadly. Pre-Sherrinford him would have been delighted at finding such valuable ammunition. At his brother’s quelling look – which could have killed lesser beings, Sherlock placates him quickly before disappearing from sight. “Alright, alright – I am getting dressed.”

***

Mycroft’s throat may have gotten a little dry when he sees Sherlock make his way down the stairs. Salmon-pink shirt, matching pocket-square, dark suit and is his eyes deceiving him? A tie. His hands are in his pockets, looking like a nonchalant young man of some means without a care in the world. Of course, Mycroft had bought all the clothes, but he had never expected Sherlock to wear them – let alone lay his eyes on them! 

He finds himself admiring the lines of Sherlock’s body, emphasized by the bespoke tailoring. Broad shoulders, narrow hips. Those careless soft curls that he had the luxury of touching a few days before. It’s unfair, how one brother could look so bloody good, while the other… merely passable. With hair in all the wrong places. 

Well at the very least he doesn’t have to look at himself...

Sherlock’s eyes seem to gleam in amusement while Mycroft finds himself in a familiar but uncomfortable position. This isn’t the first time that Mycroft has found his brother  _ attractive… _ But the drugs and their animosity toward each other over the years had made it easy for Mycroft to push his inappropriate thoughts out of mind. 

He had thought he had been over such shameful and illegal feelings, but clearly this is not the case. 

It wouldn’t do for Sherlock to deduce this secret of his. 

But at the same time, Mycroft knows that he can’t afford to push his brother away. Not when he had wanted them to rekindle their fraternal relationship in so long. 

It would be a risk that he has to take.

“Shall we?” Sherlock sweeps into a bow, making a mockery of genteel manners, before offering his arm. 

Mycroft takes little brother’s arm, feeling rather like a brand has been applied to his own arm, searing his skin – despite his usual layers of armour. 


	2. Stirred (Part I)

The beginning of their dinner together is tense. Nervy. Cautious. 

Sherlock is busy imagining how ‘dates’ with Mycroft had gone in the past. 

It’s not a secret that big brother enjoys fine dining, drinks (particularly a good scotch) and entertainment (he brings Mummy and Father to their semi-annual theatre outings). Mycroft is certainly gay. Sherlock is positive of this fact. 

Strange men have called the family home during the summers when Mycroft had visited. Sherlock had picked their calls up, solicited their reasons for calling and promptly hung up. They had all been looking for a ‘Mike’. There had been a few letters in the post from those with more poetic inclinations, and Sherlock had binned them whenever he could after laughing his arse off at their ridiculousness. Fetching the mail is one of the few tasks he had taken during his later years at home. He had never told his brother of his (mis)doings, but thinking of his brother going out with these goldfish who would never appreciate him in the way he deserves to be appreciated is… loathsome.

And considering the deplorable standards of conversation! Dimwits are aplenty in the human population, be they rich or poor. Would Mycroft set his sights amongst the aristocrats? Unlikely, considering that he has to work with some of them. But then again, there is value in having a sexual partner who has something to lose too. They would be discreet. Sherlock curls his lip slightly, the nobility tend to live in their own plane of reality. 

Or perhaps Mycroft has a certain type? Just as John prefers the large-chested blondes with slender torsos. 

He looks up at his brother, who is perusing the menu. Sure, Mycroft’s hair is thinning with every year that passes, but he’s still… handsome. The soft blues of his eyes when Mycroft had been looking at him back at Sherrinford… god… can he not go an hour without thinking about that moment in time? 

Mycroft glances at him in concern, but Sherlock waves it off. __

_ Okay, focus on something else...  _ The suit. It’s new. Sherlock notices. Mycroft had changed before they had gone out like he had done. It’s not a three-piece. Something less formal. Grey. And Mycroft HAD NOT WORN A TIE!!! Whereas Sherlock had. 

The world is ending. 

Instead of a tie, Sherlock catches a glimpse of dark fur curling over the open collar. 

Is this what big brother had planned to wear tonight? It’s… obscene! Like his own clothes, Mycroft’s are also tightly tailored, and Sherlock had caught the side of his rather nicely proportioned backside… begging to be looked at by potential admirers.

“Uh… you okay there, Sherlock?” Mycroft looks up from his menu, just to catch the sight of Sherlock grabbing his glass of still water, downing half in a blink of the eye – and proceeding to choke.

“Fine.” Sherlock makes out, hiding another cough against his arm. “I am… fine, Mycroft.” His face is uncharacteristically flushed. He then asks, “Do you always wear something like that when you go… um… courting?”

Mycroft smirks at that. He had planned to wear this ensemble the night before. His prey tend to find his three-piece suits rather intimidating… not to mention inconvenient for the sort of activities he had in mind. 

His brother has a dimple. Sherlock observes. It’s… uh… cute?!? Good god. Maybe this wasn’t such a good train of thought to follow. 

Okay. His brother is an attractive man. Next. 

The waiter comes at this moment, and Mycroft orders for the both of them. When they had sat down, Sherlock had pushed his menus toward his brother. Mycroft, of course, orders in flawless Italian, the syllables delightfully smooth and pleasing to the ears.

“Is it a little too… casual?” Mycroft asks, turning back to their conversation. 

“No.” Sherlock denies when really he wants to say Yes!!!!. Because, objectively speaking, there isn’t anything wrong with what Mycroft is wearing. There is nothing showing that shouldn’t be showing…  _ The chest hair! _ His brain screams, and Sherlock quickly banishes the thought. “It… um… should do its task admirably well.”

_ Admirably well? _ Mycroft blinks, trying to keep his astonishment at bay. Where are the weight jokes? The allusions to his treadmill? His gut? Is this his brother’s new method of tormenting him? Keeping him on tenterhooks? Unbalanced? So that he wouldn’t know what aberrant act Sherlock has planned next. 

It’s not uncommon for Sherlock to make a scene on the rare occasion that they’ve dined together at a restaurant that little brother thinks is too pretentious for his tastes. 

Mycroft’s mouth comes up with the following question. “And, pray tell, little brother – what task may that be?”

A strange sort of noise escapes from his brother, just as the waiter swoops in to drop their Negronis made with plum sake. 

> “Don’t be alarmed, it has to do with sex.” 

Mycroft remembers saying years ago. That blasted Adler! He still regrets giving Sherlock this case. He should have let little brother storm off with his bed sheet and let one of his agents handle it under his close supervision. 

> “Sex doesn’t alarm me.” 

That had been Sherlock’s reply.

> “How would you know?” 

He hadn’t intended for his ‘harmless’ retort to hit the mark as it did. It’s clearly obvious that Sherlock had been out of his element now that Mycroft can think about the scene with a clear mind. Blasted bloody dominatrix. 

“Bringing men to their doom.” Sherlock interrupts his reminiscences, having recovered from whatever he had experienced. Picking up his glass, he sips daintily at his drink. He then cocks his head slightly, “Well, to be fair – you do the same in your usual attire.”

Mycroft laughs genuinely, as the server brings their antipasti to the table. “Only a minor government official, little brother. I have no idea what you are talking about.” 

Sherlock makes a face, as he digs into the smoked ricotta with charcoal-fired octopus. “Now that’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

Pantomiming a wounded heart, Mycroft exclaims. “How could you possibly say that about your brother?” He then samples some of the scallops with marsala and truffle. 

“We are all liars, Mycroft. You… especially.” Sherlock crosses his arms and leans back against his chair in a way that makes Mycroft fear for potential injury. “I wonder, brother mine, what sort of other secrets have you been keeping close at heart?”

_ Secrets that no one should have. _

Mycroft is feeling uncomfortably hot, even though the room had felt fine a minute before. Fortunately, Sherlock doesn’t pursue his question, and they devour their appetizers. Sherlock is evidently hungry, but then again, he doesn’t eat unless Mycroft leaves food around the house.

The plates are replaced for a two-person portion of veal milanese which Mycroft knows that they both like. And two glasses of barbaresco, a complementary red wine to go with their hearty fare. He takes up the fork and knife and cuts the meat into manageable sections, like he had done when Sherlock had been a child. His brother is already helping himself to the spaghetti on the side, twirling the pasta on the tines. It’s nice. He doesn’t think Sherlock will pull off any of his usual shenanigans now. As nice as Sherlock looks in his clothes, Mycroft finds himself more satisfied at the fact that his brother is eating. Minus the impertinent commentary. 

Just as they are finishing and contemplating dessert, they are interrupted. 

“Mycroft! And who is your charming companion? Oh, William!” 

Sherlock blinks at the lady who had dared to intrude upon their meal. He had flinched upon her familiar use of his dreadful first name. He could only thank the gods that Mummy hadn’t named him Fitzwilliam or some other abomination! 

She looks familiar. Not from Mycroft’s work, but… his Aunt? One of them. Aunt Gertrude? Iris? Emmeline? Clara? 

“Ah, Aunt Catherine, a pleasure.” Mycroft stands up and offers a polite bow.

Sherlock glares at her. 

He remembers. Oh god. She had been the one that had made uncharitable remarks toward his brother when they had been mere children. Aunt Catherine isn’t a first-degree relative, but it is the tradition of the family at large to refer to relatives in the next generation up as an ‘Aunt or an ‘Uncle’. 

“Yes. A pleasure.” Sherlock makes every effort not to hide the displeasure on his face. 

He watches as his brother exchanges meaningless pleasantries, asking about the health and wellbeing of various family members. Sherlock examines how she scrutinizes Mycroft’s ring finger, and notes the simple golden ring. Their aunt alludes to Mycroft’s state of singularity (at this point everyone in the family knows about the unmarried state of Mummy’s children) and starts talking about the party that Mycroft had mentioned the other day. 

“Oh, one of my daughters will be there. You remember Lorelei, certainly?”

“Of course, Aunt Catherine. But I have to confess that my interests lie elsewhere…” 

“Nonsense! Every man needs a wife! And heir. Think about your poor Mummy – Mycroft – why just the other day –”

“Oops.” 

Sherlock clumsily knocks over his glass, unable to tolerate just another moment of this nonsense. He has excellent aim. With grim satisfaction, he watches the (expensive!) wine stain Aunt Catherine’s (even more expensive) dress. 

Serves her right for standing too close to him, subjecting his nose to her suffocating overabundance of perfume!

“You clumsy boy!” Aunt Catherine begins to berate him instead. 

Mycroft is horrified. But very much relieved. 

Sherlock had effectively ruined the designer dress of the sister to one of the most powerful and wealthiest members of the Peerage! Their Aunt goes on for some time about Sherlock’s lack of manners and poor breeding, making a scene that the neighbouring tables start to examine with interest. 

Sherlock had long tuned her out, and sends Mycroft a text.

_ Let’s get dessert somewhere else, big brother. SH _

_ I will see you outside. SH _

“I am afraid I must dash off to the loo. Toodles, Aunt Catty.” Sherlock gives an irreverent bow, blows an impertinent kiss and dashes off to the aforementioned destination after cutting her off mid-sentence.

Mycroft shakes his head when ‘Aunt Catty’ marches away, her face bearing her incandescent rage. 

He fights his urge to giggle. 

Good god, Sherlock had done that all for him? 

Hm… but Sherlock had done things like this before. Catching frogs and worms and leaving them in the beds of ghastly relatives. The one time he had set one of their relatives on fire with a firecracker. Mycroft still isn’t sure if little brother had been out for revenge or if it was a genuine accident. And that one priceless evening when Sherlock had brought Aunt Catty (no... Catherine) a cup of water fresh from the toilet bowl as a child when she had found out about Mycroft’s predilection for men. Sherlock had been too young to understand what had been going on, but knew enough that the conversation had hurt Mycroft. 

He sighs. The aristocracy (understandably) leans conservative. They don’t want change. They want to keep their wealth, titles and power. Their estates. They want to keep their traditions. Their religion. Their ways of life. They don’t care for the common man. All they want is to avoid the tax man! He is aware of the disdain Sherlock has for the upper echelons of British society. Though this is hypocrisy itself as their family had descended directly down from the landed gentry and that the both of them can use Esquire after their names if they wish. 

For people like Aunt Catherine, there is no such thing as a gay man, only men that haven’t met the right woman. There is a reason why Mycroft takes female escorts when he goes out to public events which probably do not help much with his case. He has wealth, and Aunt Catherine would love for one of her children to have a share of it.

_ I am outside now, big brother. I hope you aren’t too mad with me. It wasn’t my intention to spoil your evening. SH _

Mycroft perks up at the message, while taking out his own wallet. Putting down more than enough notes to cover the cost of their meal, he walks out. 

***

“Would you prefer dessert or –” 

Sherlock feels Mycroft place two pieces of folded up paper in his hand when they are situated in the Jag. He unfolds one, and realizes that they are tickets to a concert at the Royal Festival Hall. A night of Brahms. Damn. Yes. He wants to go. 

It has been so long since he had enjoyed a night of music out. 

“I would very much like to go, Mycroft.”

“I thought so.” Mycroft offers a little smile.

“You had quite a nice evening planned.”

“Yes. I thought with everything that had happened, it might have been a good idea.”

Sherlock says solemnly. “You work too hard, Mycroft.” 

It’s true though. Sherlock had hardly seen his brother during his stay with the exception of the second day. And on the fourth evening where he had managed to catch a glimpse. His brother’s shoulders had been hunched and he had looked exhausted. Defeated almost. Carrying the weight of the Kingdom on his back. Sherlock had hid in his room after that, sensing that Mycroft had wanted to be left alone.

“This coming from you?” Mycroft gives his little brother a wary look. 

“Yes.” Sherlock tries to sound as earnest as he could. “I do hope you have the weekend off.”

“No such luck. Not this week. Usually my weekends are free, but there’s a summit to prepare for next week –”

“Does that mean… you won’t be here?” Sherlock asks quietly. 

There is almost a sad(?) colouration in his tone that Mycroft picks up. Not that Mycroft had been present much during the past week. He reassures. “No. I will be doing my part from here. I seldom go overseas these days, unless someone makes an irreparable blunder. It’s not my job to be the public face of our country. Publicity rather detracts from my usefulness to the country.” He then asks curiously. “Are you concerned that you might miss me, or do you want me away so that you can hunt out all the secrets I have hidden in the house?”

_ Is Mycroft teasing him? _ Sherlock has no idea. He has always found his brother hard to read, and this is no different. “Definitely the latter.” 

“Oh.” 

The disappointment in Mycroft’s voice causes some strange sensation in Sherlock’s chest. Like as if his heart had dropped into his abdomen (as ludicrous the thought is!). 

_ Why is his brother affecting him like this? _ Sherlock thinks furiously to himself. 

Instead, Sherlock lets his hand slip into Mycroft’s. He intertwines their fingers together. It’s… pleasant. His brother’s hand is warm. Comfortably so. 

Mycroft arches an eyebrow, but his brother doesn’t see it. He doesn’t make a move to remove his hand from Sherlock’s. He could almost imagine…

_ No. _ Mycroft tells himself firmly, putting the scandalous train of thought to bed.

“Did you ever want to get married?” Sherlock asks, in lieu of any other better conversation topic.

_ What? _ Mycroft’s eyebrows have practically left his face. 

“You know – to participate in the institution of Holy Matrimony?

“God. Whatever makes you think that, Sherlock?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock says as he looks away from Mycroft. “You were always the perfect brother. Son. Always doing the things that make our parents happy and proud. Even if they can’t understand the depth and breadth of your varied accomplishments. You are the smarter one. I thought… something like marriage would be within the realm of your life. With a wife, even though I know where your preferences lie.”

The dejected tone of Sherlock’s voice (even though it is barely present) is heart-wrenching. But revealing in a way that Mycroft had never considered. 

Is this what Sherlock had always thought of himself? The lesser one out of the two of them? The fucked-up one? And… oh dear. That Sherlock had taken his words and advice over the years as an exercise of Mycroft exerting his superiority over him? And not as the care and teasing that they had meant to be? 

Had this always been the crux of their difficult relationship? Aside from what Eurus had done in their youth? 

“No, little brother, it has never occurred to me to take a wife. It is an impossibility. Not to mention that I absolutely abhor children. No offense to Dr. Watson’s little one. And… Sherlock… I-I always considered you an equal. And…” He laughs somewhat bitterly. “I am far from being the perfect brother and son as you’ve come to learn over the past week. Somehow, I managed to fail everyone with my conceit. I am sorry if I’ve ever made you feel like you were beneath me. You aren’t. That has never been my intention. When you were born, Sherlock – I didn’t know it then, but it was the happiest event of my life. I remember how you looked at me. Your eyes were so blue when Mummy placed you in my arms. And you looked up at me, and I thought that I wasn’t going to be alone anymore. That we were… for a lack of better terminology… kindred spirits. My feelings for you, Sherlock – they’ve never changed.”  _ Liar. _ The voice in Mycroft’s head echoes mockingly. “I’ve always cared for you. And whether you like it or not, I will continue to care for you.”

“I am not lonely…” Sherlock finds the words come unbidden to his lips. He mouths them quietly to himself.

Those words that Mycroft had said to him ages ago when he had returned. Sherlock had felt it keenly then. That desolate sense of isolation. Having been away from all he had known (and loved?) for so long, only to find that everyone had for the most part moved on. 

> “Sherlock… you are never alone.” 

Mycroft had said to him on the first night. 

Before Sherlock could attempt to unravel the confusing jumble of emotions within him, the car stops at their destination.

***

“Thank you for the lovely evening.” 

Sherlock finds himself uttering these unfamiliar (and to his own ears, inane!) words. But what could he really say? The music had been sublime. Joshua Bell had executed the tragic third Sonata with a mastery that Sherlock had envied followed by the comforting balm of Brahms’ piano quartets. 

During intermission, Mycroft and he had stolen out of the hall and over drinks they had a lively discourse about the music peppered with deductions of the members of the audience. Even though their focus had been on the goldfish, Sherlock had found his eyes drifting toward Mycroft – catching the appearance of that dimple and making sure that every laugh that Sherlock had managed to coax out of him does not go unappreciated. Sherlock doesn’t even remember the last time he’s heard Mycroft laugh so wholeheartedly. 

Oh god, what happens after these nights? Does Mycroft bring men back here? To his abode? Unlikely. A hotel room? Seems indiscreet. Probably to the other’s place. 

“I expect my typical catches to say these canned inanities, but not you. Was there something not to your liking, little brother?” Mycroft gazes at him, his eyes inscrutable. 

“Considering that I’ve never been on a date, Mycroft – I don’t think I am someone that you can ask for critique over your capabilities –”

“Sherlock. I don’t care about the other fish in the metaphorical ocean. I want to know if you enjoyed the evening, or not.” 

“I did.” Sherlock offers his admission quietly, not knowing what to feel. He feels lost in a way that he’d never felt before. His face is flushed and warm and he isn’t sure if this is purely a side effect of all the alcohol he had managed to consume over the last few hours. “How could I not?”

Mycroft smiles sadly at him. “Not too long ago, you would be screeching in my company.”

“I do not screech.” Sherlock crosses his arms, trying to look prim and proper – and no doubt failing.

His brother laughs. “What on earth do you call that unearthly din that you make with your violin, little brother?”

Sherlock does not dignify the question with a reply. He steps closer to Mycroft. Somebody out of the two of them gasp when their hands meet. Sherlock could almost hear the sizzle of electricity arcing through his afferents.  _ What are they doing?  _ His brain wonders.

_ What are they doing? _ Mycroft asks himself. There’s something too charged about the air around them. He doesn’t understand the way Sherlock is looking at him. Or perhaps he does and is deliberately throwing the interpretation straight out fearing the repercussions. 

“You would have died for me.” Sherlock whispers, bowing his head. He lets his instincts guide his words. “And all over nothing but our sister’s stupid lie. There was no plane. I’ve been so stupid, Mycroft. You’ve always tried to be there for me –”

Mycroft winces. That’s not true in its entirety. There are times where he should have intervened. Should have done more. And times where he shouldn’t have meddled.  _ How close had he been to losing everything that mattered? _ So many times. An unacceptable number of times. 

His brother’s eyes are bright. Those cheeks streaked with something shiny under the lighting. Tears. It’s easy then. Mycroft’s arm instinctively goes around Sherlock’s torso, hugging his brother to his chest. What thoughts have Sherlock been thinking this week? Mycroft’s regret is that he hadn’t been around enough. To help him through this difficult process.

“I would do anything for you, Lock.” Mycroft presses his lips to his brother’s unwieldy curls, which are in further disarray due to the evening winds. “Know that always.”

***

“You –!” Sherlock stands up when his next client steps into Mrs. Hudson’s flat. “What are you doing here?!? Get out! Get out!” 

“Sherlock – calm down!” John immediately intervenes. 

Ever since their spat, they haven’t talked. Or texted. 

John has had many days to reflect – and that pit of bubbling anger (lava) that he has within him is really becoming a problem. And it’s not just with Sherlock that he becomes argumentative with. Harry had called him a first-class arsehole over the weekend, and told him not to darken her door again for free babysitting until he had enrolled himself in an anger-management program. 

He had been shopping around for a new therapist, and he hopes the one he had just found will help. It hadn’t even been intentional that he would meet Sherlock today. Mrs. Hudson had agreed to look after Rosie and when John had returned from his stint at the local surgery, he had found Sherlock receiving clients from the comforts of Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen.

The client holds up his hands in mock-surrender. 

John scrutinizes the man. Almost forty, perhaps. Dressed in clothes that John could never afford. Let alone pull off. Dirty blond hair cut and styled in a rakish manner. Tall. Film star? Fashion model? 

John has never seen Sherlock have such a violent reaction to a client at first glance. 

There’s a signet ring on the man’s finger with a familiar crest… oh this is… well…

“Lord Dawlish.” Sherlock announces with great contempt. “Please kindly fuck off.”

John is horrified at Sherlock’s lack of decorum. He spares a quick glance at Rosie who is busy playing with her stuffed animals in the playpen a few metres away. 

At least ‘fuck’ won’t be her first word. 

It had been dada. 

He remembers their little act of impertinence at the heart of Buckingham Palace all those years ago. It had been fun at the beginning, but John still believes that there should be some respect for the old traditions of the land. Although it is evident that Sherlock does not share such views.

“I suppose, I deserve that.” The man nods ruefully. “We were at Oxford together. And… I was a different person back then –”

“Oh, you aren’t here to tell us how you are God’s gift to mankind?” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Or how you pity my lowly heritage? Maybe about how I am thoroughly unfit for society? Oh – did Aunt Catty –?”

“Aunt Catty?” Lord Dawlish looks astounded. 

He then bursts out laughing. And laughing. 

John decides to keep his mouth shut. Well, he had always wondered what Sherlock’s relatives were like, aside from his anticlimactically normal parents. Besides, this is all too entertaining.

“You don’t actually have a case for me, do you? What inane favour are you going to insult me with?”

“I have come to seek to your hand in –”

“What?” Sherlock drinks some tea and promptly chokes on it. Shit. This is becoming a habit. “Hell no!”

“Only for a weekend, cousin. For my Father’s fancy party.” 

“Why?”

“Because it will piss Aunt Catty off! I am tired of living in the closet and having my Aunt throw every eligible woman at my feet. It’s sickening. Especially my cousins! Elizabeth and Lorelei are lovely girls, but unfortunately they lack the –”

“I refuse to be the spectacle. Or what Aunt Catty would say ‘the spectre of the feast’.” Sherlock crosses his arms, feeling rather like he is existing in a bad dream. Little did he dream that his impertinent act would lead to this! “Go find some other poor soul to be your boyfriend for the weekend. Or better yet, your actual boyfriend,  _ Henry  _ –”

“Aren’t you at all curious about your relations?” 

Sherlock vehemently shakes his head. 

“How about money? Just name your –”

“And people call  _ me  _ tactless.” Sherlock hisses with the tatters of his pride. He can only thank the Gods that Mrs. Hudson had gone out to buy groceries. There is only so much humiliation he could take in one afternoon. He points firmly at the door. “Out!”

“Fine. Have it your way.” It’s obvious that Lord Dawlish or Henry is not accustomed to being directly refused. The man carelessly throws a business card onto the table with a phone number pencilled on it. “If you change your mind, you may text.”

When Henry vacates the premises, John predictably convulses in laughter. 

Sherlock glares at him. 

What right does John have to laugh at him? 

John catches Sherlock’s expression, mixed with both hurt and anger. But before he could say anything to apologize, there is another knock at the door. 

Much to John’s surprise, Sherlock makes a defeated sound just as Molly strides into the room. Her face is tastefully made up, and she is dressed in her best clothes. 

There’s no mistaking why she is here, having finally caught her elusive prey.

“Sherlock!”

“I think… I better go.” John stands up just as Molly hangs up her new coat. He collects Rosie, tucks her into her pram and vacates the space.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Molly says quietly, sitting down across from Sherlock. 

“There’s nothing to say, Molly.”

“But you said… you said… you –”

“I had to make you say it. I was desperate. I didn’t want you to die.” Sherlock clenches his fists under the table, finding himself rather frustrated. Everything has felt  _ wrong _ after Sherrinford. Well, except for his interactions with Mycroft. 

At Molly’s hurt and confused face, he explains further. “Well, apparently I have a sister. Whose idea of a good time is to fuck up my life. She’s safely locked up now, but she had tricked us and trapped me into playing her ghastly games. And… she made me do it. Told me that she would blow up your flat if I couldn’t make you say it. Those three words. And… Molly, I am so sorry. I –”

“Save it.” Molly doesn’t look pleased whatsoever. “That was cruel even for you, Sherlock –”

“It was either that or your death.”

“Death would be kinder than this.”

“Would it?”

Molly laughs bitterly. “Do you know? Do you know how often I dreamed of the moment? That you would say those words to me? When you went away from London… that last night we had together… I thought we had a moment. You and I. I kept waiting for you to come back, Sherlock. And when you did, it was as if nothing had changed –”

“It’s because nothing  _ has  _ changed! You are still my friend. Molly. This isn’t my area –”

“Then what is your area? I saw you with Janine –”

“That wasn’t real.” Sherlock refutes. “I am gay, Molly.” He says quietly. “I’ve always found the male form aesthetically pleasing, even though I never had an urge to do anything about it. I didn’t tell you –” He forestalls Molly’s question. “As I thought it wouldn’t make it a difference…”

Molly opens her mouth to argue, but she looks resigned. “Fine.”

“Are we… okay?” Sherlock asks tentatively. It’s evident that the pathologist is fighting to keep back her tears. 

“I… don’t know.” She says, her voice sounding raw. “I want to stop loving you, but I can’t.” 

Caring is truly not an advantage. Sherlock muses to himself. 

And there’s something depressing about unrequited love. It’s rather… pathetic. He thinks about Irene Adler and how her own love for him had destroyed the game that she had played so brilliantly. He wants to tell Molly to ‘try harder’, but he doesn’t fancy getting slapped again. 

He’s had enough insults to his person at this present moment. 

“I better go.” Molly sweeps out of the flat – stepping back in once more to grab her coat, and Sherlock decides to leave for home… well – Mycroft’s before something worse could walk into Mrs. Hudson’s abode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to break Chapter 2 into two parts. It's too long otherwise...
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think down below :)


	3. Stirred (Part II)

_ Are you coming home? SH _

Mycroft’s exhausted brain formulates a reply.

_ Are you feeling lonely? MH _

_ Maybe I am getting tired of being judged by your suits of armour. SH _

_ You should highly reconsider your choice in decor. SH _

_ And maybe… I would like to see if you are alive and kicking? SH _

Well… that’s as close to a ‘I miss you’ Mycroft could possibly get out of his brother. It’s certainly better than Sherlock texting ‘I’m bored! Entertain me!’. 

Good God, he’s beat. The diplomats and even the Prime Minister will be leaving tomorrow for Singapore, and Mycroft had finally finished preparing their dossiers. Considering how disastrous Brexit will be, and has been already for the flaccid economy, looking for and making new trade agreements is absolutely critical. He can permit himself a break. Just this once.

_ Don’t you dare scrap them! They are genuine antiques! MH _

_ I am alive. But just. MH _

_ Too late. SH _

_ Sherlock! MH _

_ Just joking! That livened you up a bit, didn’t it? SH _

_ But seriously, brother… when was the last time you slept? Ate? I haven’t seen you all week! SH _

_ I had a rather sad excuse of a sandwich from Anthea. That was about… a few hours ago? As for sleep. I… honestly don’t remember. MH _

_ Surely there must be a comfortable bed for you to rest your head on, brother dear. SH _

_ In that regard, I am rather like you, Sherlock. Can’t switch off until the work is done. MH _

_ Are you concerned for my well being? MH _

Mycroft does not get a text back. 

He sighs dejectedly for a moment before turning to his work. 

_ Why can’t they talk about sentiment like normal people? _ Scratch that – British men aren’t exactly known for their abilities to express emotion. And for the two of them… well – for too long, the revelation of one of them succumbing to such thoughts would result in mockery. But… things had been so different in the last week when they had spent time together. 

Could all that progress be lost so quickly? 

He tries to read the report on his desktop screen. 

All he could think of instead is Sherlock. For once, he has Sherlock staying over at his place, and he’s stuck here. At bloody work. For days on end. And not just any version of Sherlock. This is one that wants to spend time with him. That seems to care for him. One that’s trying to muddle his way through forgotten memories and trauma. Mycroft won’t even have the weekend either, considering Lord Worcester’s party. 

Fuck it all. He closes his eyes. 

Would he lose his brother to that undeserving Dr. Watson again? That had happened the last time they had spent a big chunk of time together. To take down Moriarty once and for all. He had been so disappointed when Sherlock had returned, so eager to resume his Baker Street life, relegating Mycroft to the shadows once again. 

He still thinks about it. How his nerves had tingled where Sherlock had come to contact with him. The sensation of Sherlock’s hand holding his own. How it felt to have Sherlock right up against him. His brother’s tears when he had talked about those ghastly minutes at Sherrinford. 

There’s a knock at the door. 

Curious. It’s almost midnight. Anthea had long gone home. Wearily, Mycroft stands up and cautiously opens the door. 

“Delivery, Mr. Holmes.” 

A young man dressed in the blue of a Hermes’ courier outfit, a reflective neon-green safety vest and a baseball cap hands him a cardboard box before turning to leave. 

Wait. This is strange. Usually deliveries get left at security where they are screened before being brought over to Anthea by Whitehall personnel. 

The man is almost out of Anthea’s office before Mycroft calls out. “Wait!”

The man turns around. Brown eyes look at him. 

Good God. He is slow. 

Mycroft tuts at himself, having finally realized the truth. 

“Sherlock.” He sighs. “Come in.”

“Ah, I was so close to getting away with it.” Sherlock offers him what looks to be a fond smile, losing the demeanour of the delivery man. “But you look like shit, brother mine.” 

“Hello to you too, Lock. I can only hope that there isn’t a glitter bomb in here?”

“Just open it.” Sherlock says impatiently as he ushers him back into his office, before closing the door. 

Mycroft does, finding a generous hamper. 

There is a wicker basket, containing all manner of food. A charcuterie board with a fine selection of cheeses (Cornish brie, goat cheese, gruyene). Sourdough. Jam. Butter. Smoked salmon. Sausage rolls. Stroopwafels. A thermos of soup. A personal pork pie. Fresh strawberries. Grapes. Mandarins. A bottle of expensive red wine. Some instant oatmeal. Boiled eggs in a tupperware. Sliced cucumbers. A ranch dressing mix. Another tupperware full of egg salad. 

When he pulls out a box, Sherlock instantly looks away. His face appears… flushed? 

It is a box of chocolate hearts? Embossed with a familiar and exclusive logo? Fancy. A Lyon based chocolatier. 

Where did Sherlock even manage to find these in London?

He opens the box, pulling out the soft cloth bearing the gilt words  _ Je t’aime _ and revealing the two tiers of designer chocolates. 

Mycroft opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. 

His brother looks like he wants to go hide in a dark hole somewhere. Realizing that he is hungry, Mycroft can’t help but to take one and put it in his mouth. Mm… Heavenly. The combination of pistachios and chocolate… 

At the bottom of the basket is a soft blanket, carefully folded up. And a card. 

Feeling his heart beat faster, Mycroft picks it up. And he reads. 

> Mycroft,
> 
> The house is too big and empty. The day of a sort that makes one want to crawl into bed and never leave it. I just want to make sure that one of us is smiling before this day ends. 
> 
> SH
> 
> PS: Did the courier look familiar to you?
> 
> PPS: There’s more chocolate where that came from.

“Thank you.” Mycroft finally manages. 

He is stunned. This is the sweetest thing that anyone had done for him. Even down to the prank. This isn’t a commercial hamper. Sherlock had bought and prepared everything. There’s enough food in here to last for a few days. The chocolate hearts though. He would have to eat them all or hide them, or Anthea is going to tease him non-stop when she finds them, especially with the ‘I LOVE YOU’ written on it. 

“I think I better leave you to it.” Sherlock starts to head out again, but Mycroft manages to grab his wrist. 

Their eyes meet. Despite the brown contacts, Mycroft could see the mix of emotion swirling within. He hugs his brother, feeling the exhaustion fall away from him momentarily. 

“Stay. Sherlock. No one is here anyways. Let’s feast and be merry.” 

Mycroft pulls out the soft blanket and wraps himself in it. It gets a little chilly here late at night. He had long shed his jacket and waistcoat, preserving them for the next day. Already, he has run out of spare suits. 

Sherlock nods as he takes off the helmet. He pulls out a second checker-patterned blanket that had been used for decorative purposes, and lays it on the floor. 

This is crazy. Mycroft thinks. Having a picnic on the floor of his office. So late at night. But he sits down next to his brother after fetching the cutlery and plates that he keeps in here. 

“Did you really bike here?” He asks, his voice still coloured with awe. 

Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly. “Well. I couldn’t find anyone willing to deliver this on such short notice at this time of night.”

_ Liar. _ Mycroft deduces with certainty. 

He doubts that Sherlock had even thought of delegating the task to someone else. The texts had been just to test the waters before he had knocked. Sherlock had wanted to see him in person. To check up on him. As he sits and fills his belly with baby brother sitting next to him, he can’t help but feel a pleasant and cozy warmth spread throughout his body. 

The sensation of being cared for by someone he cared the most for. 

***

“Hello stranger.” Sherlock opens the front door to greet his brother before the security system could be disarmed. 

Mycroft is dead on his feet. Just as Sherlock had suspected several days ago, it’s clear that he has slept little (if at all) and has clearly neglected himself in every way. His suit is an uncharacteristic disaster.

It’s… alarming. Damn. Sherlock has never seen his brother like this. Ever. 

_ Is this what he himself looks like after a long complicated case? Probably yes. _

His brother can barely form words. A pang strikes him, and Sherlock quickly whisks Mycroft inside. His brother slumps against him, his eyes fighting to keep awake. Sherlock hugs him, remembering the last embrace that they had shared previously in Mycroft’s office. An unknown tenderness(?) seems to unfurl in his chest, in place of where his heart beats at his brother’s predicament. 

Poor Mycie. Working so hard. Sherlock vaguely remembers his brother telling him what he had been doing in the office during that surreal night of picnicking. Trying hard to wipe away at the stains of bad decisions. Not only his own, but the nation’s. Not that Sherlock personally thinks Mycroft had fucked up, aside from not telling him the truth about Eurus earlier. 

Who looks after Mycie? Sherlock finds himself wondering as he leads Mycroft upstairs, supporting part of his weight. Anthea? Not enough, considering the state Sherlock had found Mycroft in the other day. But, Mycroft probably hides most of his suffering… like himself. It’s not them to unload their burdens to anyone. They both wear masks to the outside world, their sharkskin as they swim in a world full of jellyfish. Goldfish. 

Gods. This is his brother at his most vulnerable. The mask is off. Whereas before Sherrinford, Sherlock would have done something horrible. The very idea makes him nauseous. And depressed. He had been his brother’s protector in some way when he had been a child, and… 

He sighs. He shouldn’t dwell on these horrid years. What matters is what he does going forward. It won’t be all sunshine and roses, but he could do his best. There would be fuck-ups aplenty, but Mycroft still for some reason trusts him and even… cares for him on a level that Sherlock is struggling to comprehend. 

Pushing open the door to his brother’s bedroom, he leads him to the adjoining loo after fumbling around for a light switch. 

“Can you shower, brother? Without falling over?” He asks with concern.

Mycroft gives a weak nod, and staggers into the bathroom. 

“I will bring you some clothes.” Sherlock says as he closes the door.

He turns to look at the bedroom. He’s never been in here. In Mycroft’s personal domain. It’s a cozy space, furnished with matching antique mahogany, with the exception of the modern king-sized bed. It had been neatly made at some point by the housekeeper, whom Sherlock knows visits weekly. There is a bookshelf closeby, stuffed full to the brim with an eclectic mix of literature. 

When he is satisfied with the sounds of Mycroft attending to the details of his toilette, he walks over to one of the wardrobes. He starts rifling through drawers and doors, looking for things suitable to sleep in. He doesn’t even know what kind of clothes Mycroft goes to bed in. But he eventually finds a silky set of pyjamas in a flattering shade of blue and a pair of briefs, after having seen Mycroft’s ‘tie index’ and his impressive collection of designer suits. 

Surprisingly, other than the clothes and books, the room is otherwise devoid of personal effects. There are two picture frames standing on one of the nightstands (presumably the side Mycroft favours). When he catches the glimpse of the pictures housed within, he gasps. 

There’s a picture of himself. 

When had Mycroft taken this? Or Mummy? He is standing next to a tree in their parents’ backyard, brooding. This had been taken during his Oxford years. The other frame has a picture of Mycroft and himself sitting together on a rock somewhere. Perhaps on a beach? They had been so young…  _ What could all this possibly mean? _

He would have been less surprised if the frames had pictures of the Queen or the King! Or at least pictures with other members of the family, particularly the titled side. Or at minimum Mummy and Father. 

> I would do anything for you. Know that always.

_ Had he imagined that? The feel of Mycroft’s lips brushing against his curls?  _ He had been too busy enjoying the comfort of Mycroft’s hug while trying not to cry. 

He doesn’t even have friends left. 

Well, there’s good old Lestrade who still doesn’t have a case for him to distract his poor confused mind. And Mrs. Hudson. But… she had always been more of a motherly figure in Sherlock’s life. Molly hates his guts, and who knows what the hell is going on with John. Not to mention bloody fucking pompous bastards thinking that Sherlock would take the money and be a fucking rentboy! Or male escort? Gigolo? 

He cringes at the thought. 

Henry hasn’t changed much from Oxford. Clearly. Lord Dawlish and Aunt Catty deserve each other. The card still resides in his coat pocket. Sherlock had thought about binning it, but perhaps he could subscribe Henry to some interesting services… 

Eventually, he slips the offerings through the door, feeling the warm steam hit his skin. 

His brother emerges a few minutes later. Rumpled but clean. 

“Thank you, Lockie…” Mycroft mumbles sleepily.

Much to Sherlock’s astonishment, his brother kisses his cheek without hesitation before stumbling under the covers of his bed. Mycroft is out before his head hits the pillow. 

_ What was that? _

Sherlock touches the spot where Mycroft’s lips had come into contact with his skin. 

Ah, but the lack of sleep is equivalent to being drunk. He would know even if he’s never accidentally kissed anyone during his own states of exhaustion.

Nothing to it then. 

Sighing, he rearranges the patchwork quilt tightly around Mycroft’s person before turning off the lights and walking out of the room.

***

_ I woke up and you were gone… MH _

_ It’s Monday, big brother. People usually work on Mondays… SH _

_ So then, are you working? Or busy eating Mrs. Hudson’s baked goods? MH _

Sherlock’s hand stops part way to his mouth holding a freshly baked ginger nut. 

He types with one hand.

_ No comment. SH _

_ Thank you for the food you left though. The butternut squash soup is particularly tasty. MH _

_ I am glad my cooking meets your approval. SH _

_ You cook? MH _

_ I am a man of many talents. Hidden of course. SH _

_ I am also spectacularly lazy. SH _

_ I see. Well. I am touched, brother mine. MH _

_ A client is at the door, Mycroft. I shall text you later. SH _

_ I hope for your sake that it’s interesting. But not too dangerous! MH _

_ Boring! SH _

_ Hm… client is oscillating in front of the flat door. A love affair, perhaps? SH _

Sherlock puts his phone away just as the door bursts open after a knock. 

His client is taller than John. Of mixed ancestry. East Asian… perhaps… Han Chinese? Dark hair, brown eyes and a familiar looking jaw… hm. He’s seen that jaw somewhere recently. His clothes are of excellent quality. A bespoke light-blue shirt, a pair of trousers and a pair of new oxfords. Italian. Leather man-bag. Of some means then. There’s an anxiety in his walk and carriage. Either an accountant by trade or lawyer? It’s hard to say. Has a desk job, most certainly. And a dog too. 

“Hello, Sherlock.” His body quivers with nervous energy. 

“Who are you?” 

The man smiles somewhat. “My name is Cecil, but I prefer Yifei. I’ve always wanted to meet you, Sherlock. I’ve heard lots. Most recently from Aunt Catherine.”

Sherlock groans loudly. All these relatives popping out from nowhere! What has he done to deserve this? 

“I must confess that Aunt Catherine has the same effect on me.”

“So, what do you have for me?” Sherlock decides to cut to the chase, sensing that unlike Lord Dawlish, Cecil has a legitimate reason for showing up. 

“The matter is rather sensitive – and can potentially cause a scandal –” Yifei begins, sounding rather tentative.

“Everyone’s matters are rather sensitive, Yifei. Or should I say cousin?” Sherlock clasps his hands together. “All I do request is that you tell the truth.”

If he’s not imagining it, he could see his newly-discovered cousin wince at his words. 

Intriguing. 

From the depths of his bag, Yifei produces an envelope. He hands it over to Sherlock. 

It’s an everyday airmail envelope. White with the usual red-blue border. There’s nothing written on it. It had been slit neatly with a letter opener. Sherlock pulls out the sheet of paper. Matte printing paper. Common everywhere. He unfolds it, revealing typed words. Arial. 

> I know everything. I have evidence of the matter. If you do not wish to embroil your most generous family with a scandal, you will provide for me one thousand pounds in unmarked twenty pound notes. I am sure you can manage that. Leave them in an unmarked envelope in the box at one in the morning on the day after the main party. Tell no one of this! 

_ The box? _ Hm. Sherlock has no idea what that is referring to, but it seems like it is someone who knows of the family quite well. And is familiar with the old pile of rocks they call home. 

“Where did you find this letter?”

“Slipped between the crack of my flat door and the doorframe.”

“It couldn’t possibly be a mistake, could it not?”

Yifei shakes his head. “No. I thought about it as a possibility, but how would the blackmailer know about  _ the box? _ That’s something that we had used as children to leave messages to one another! And… invitations to Father’s party is a highly coveted event in Society.”

“And there is something…” Sherlock has no idea what this scandal could entail.

“Yes. How should I say this?” Yifei sits down abruptly across from Sherlock and rests his forehead against his hand. “The official story is that my twin sister Blanche and I were born in China. Beijing to be precise. That my parents were diplomats and had a close friendship with Father during the years where China was trying to stretch her wings into the Western sphere. The 1980s to put that into context. They died in a tragic accident, and none of our estranged family wanted to take us in until Father stepped in and brought us both to England.”

“The truth?” Sherlock inquires, beginning to have a vague idea of where this all leads. 

Yifei looks around skittishly. He then proceeds to explain. “The truth of the matter is that Blanche and I were conceived from a love affair. Between Father and the daughter of a high-ranking official in the CCP. We were born the same year Henry was born. Just a little later in the year. So we are actually Lord Worcester’s biological children and Henry and Evan’s half-siblings. He brought us home to be raised with his own son after Mum passed away from a prolonged illness.”

“Who else knows of this?”

“Lady Amelia, whom Blanche and I both call Mother, knows. Henry knows. And that’s about it. Blanche and I didn’t find out the truth until we were adults. Father came clean to Mother when he brought us back, and she forgave him. She had always wanted a big family and a daughter, but conception was difficult after Henry. She’s always been incredibly kind to us although Aunt Catherine never lets us forget that we were adopted. Evan is our miracle brother. We all dote on him. Mother is rather jealous that Aunt Catherine had managed the feat of having two daughters…”

“And I suppose she’s jealous of the sons.”

“Quite.” Yifei smiles a little. 

“So… why not the police?”

“They would be… indiscreet. Incompetent. I thought about just handing the money over, for everyone’s sake, but then… what’s stopping the blackmailer from demanding money again? I might be the son of an Earl but I earn most of my money with a monthly supplement from the family trusts. I am a lawyer by trade, and I help Father with the financial aspects of our estate.”

“Do you have any known enemies?” Sherlock ponders. 

“No. Not that I am aware of. I get along with most people.”

“Who knew about the box?” 

“Henry, Evan, Blanche, Aunt Catherine’s children – Lorelei and Lizzy. There’s also Spencer. He’s Lord Ancaster’s only child. We all grew up together. Our parents may have been aware, but it was a secret that we were proud to share amongst us as children. Sometimes things still get left in there for old times’ sake. Maybe the servants know, but I am not so sure.”

“I guess I have no choice in this matter. I must go to –”

“Westbourne? That’s the name of the family estate.”

“Yes. The party.” Sherlock winces inwardly. “I got an invite. I suppose I better make use of it. I do know how hard they are to come by.”

“Father takes pride in his parties. He likes them on the smaller side of things. But there’s always interesting displays and people. Dancing too. I suppose that’s not your thing.”

“Not really. I don’t enjoy parties. I suffer them. But I need a distraction. And your case isn’t completely boring.” Sherlock admits.  _ And Mycroft will be there. _ The voice in his head reminds him of the real reason why he’s interested, but he ignores it. “It would also be highly suspicious if I showed up to the party as your plus-one.”

“You do have a point, cousin Sherlock.”

“Before I let you go, do you have anything else to tell me?” Sherlock scrutinizes Yifei’s tired face, having a feeling that he’s only scraping the surface of the affair. 

“No.” Yifei’s voice is hard. “None at all.”

*******

The next time John sees Sherlock, he drops his doctor’s bag with an audible thud. 

The consulting detective is sitting next to Lord Dawlish on Mrs. Hudson’s afghan covered couch and they appear to be talking to each other. Rather… amicably. 

There is a casual air about Sherlock that John has never seen. The way he is draped on the couch. How close he is to the man! And then Sherlock stealthily slides his arm so that it is resting comfortably around Lord Dawlish’s shoulders. The man smiles softly at Sherlock and then… John is forced to look away. 

What. The. Fuck. 

The words barely cover John’s opinions on the matter. 

He looks back at the scene of the crime(?) and they are still… kissing. 

Good god, he hadn’t been imagining things. Finally the two of them break apart with a wet smacking sort of noise, and John cannot help but cringe. But he cannot help but watch… the two of them look good together. All long limbs, well-defined bodies and the contrast of light and dark hair. 

“Ah, I am happy for him.” Mrs. Hudson interrupts him. 

“Oh. Yes. I guess.” John manages to form words from his suddenly parched throat.  _ Seeing really is believing…  _ Was that entire interaction from well almost a week ago a farce? Or a chemistry that arose from hate? And then he remembers that entire fiasco with Janine… is this real? It’s hard to tell with Sherlock. It always has been. “When did you know?” The words sound slightly strangled.

“Oh, Sherlock told me we were having tea for three on Tuesday, and then he introduced me to Henry. What a charming boy! Ah. Young love!” Mrs. Hudson has a wistful look upon her face. 

“I guess… I better come back another time.” John sighs just as Sherlock notices him.

“John! Come in here! You must congratulate me!” Sherlock’s eyes seem to gleam in a way that reminds John of the way he had looked at locked-room mysteries. 

“Well… uh. Congrats. On the uh… boyfriend.” 

“Yes. Isn’t it wonderful? You were always telling me that I should go seek out someone.” Sherlock grins. “We’ve sorted out our differences from last week.”

Henry looks at Sherlock with an expression that makes John want to puke. 

Damn. John is sure Sherlock used to smile at him like that. Before his fake death? After a moment of exhilaration? Beating all the odds? That charged look shared between them after facing off Moriarty at that pool? Where had it all gone wrong? 

“Darling.” Henry smiles, his hand gently resting upon Sherlock’s arm. “Shall we go to Savile Row later tonight and pick out our suits for the party? Oh. I cannot wait to show you where I grew up. You’ve never been to Westbourne, haven’t you – dear?”

“No. I have not had the privilege, Henny. You must show me the garden that your Mum loved so.”

“Oh, but of course! Perhaps we can rouse the rest of the generation and play an old fashioned round of Hide & Seek. That way I can show you every nook and cranny of the house.” There is a suggestive waggle of Lord Dawlish’s eyebrow, indicating exactly what sort of nooks and crannies he would like to explore. Or rather… whose.

“I think I better go.” John finds himself saddled with emotions that he had never considered. Or perhaps he had, but the roller-coaster of events in the previous years had relegated them to the background. 

Dear god. This has to be real. He remembers how Sherlock had been with Janine, and that in retrospect had been awkward. Sherlock had never seemed to want to kiss her! It’s clear now that Sherlock is a gay man (it would have never worked out with Molly). 

And Henny! John shudders with revulsion as he picks up his doctor’s bag. 

No. He would go pick up Rosie from Molly and work up his courage to meet Sherlock again. He needs to apologize. He needs to earn his friendship back with Sherlock. And god, would Sherlock call him Johnny or John-John if they were a theoretical couple? _ Fucking hell, Watson _ – he scolds himself –  _ you are not gay!  _ He closes his eyes and breathes slowly as he makes his way out the door. 

When the door slams behind John, Sherlock and Henry break apart immediately. They share matching smiles of amusement, just as Mrs. Hudson tuts. “That was a little mean.”

“Perhaps. But it worked. You are our accomplice, Martha!” Henry jumps up to his feet and bows with sincerity. “I think we’ve had enough practice. Aunt Catty will never know what hit her! And for the love of god, Sherlock – Henny?!? Really?” 

***

“Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson scrutinizes him with great concern when Lord Dawlish has finally left. “Is this wise?”

“What is wise?” Sherlock picks up a Bakewell tart that Mrs. Hudson had made earlier in the day. He bites into it, savouring the jammy goodness. The one benefit of spending his days at Mrs. Hudson’s flat. “You mean what’s going on between Henny and I?” 

Mrs. Hudson sighs. She appears to be in deep thought. “Someone might end up with their heart broken. Even fake relationships –” 

Sherlock holds up his hand. 

He thinks about Janine for a moment. She had genuinely fallen for him during their short stint together. Of course he had needed her for access to Magnussen (as Mary did), but she hadn’t gotten the memo. He remembers the hurt in her eyes whenever he had withdrawn from her, not wanting to get too involved physically. He had tolerated kissing her; doing anything else had been out of the question. Of course, at the end – she had enjoyed abusing him all over the tabloids. She had made a pretty penny from her gossip, but somehow from speaking to her much later after the fact – money is a small balm for misguided hopes. 

Why are women always attracted to the men they cannot have? 

But Lord Dawlish? Sherlock doesn’t need to ask if the man is involved with somebody. He is pretty sure he knows what the answer is. But the specifics remain shrouded in mystery to him. There must be more than one reason why his cousin (who knows how many times removed!) had sought him out aside from driving Aunt Catty batty. 

“I am sure Hen-Hen can cope.” Sherlock barely manages to refrain from snickering. Ah. He will call his cousin as many objectionable pet names as he could come up with. There should be amusement at a party after all. “He’s a big boy. And I am sure he has someone.” 

“That’s not quite what I meant.” 

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s for a case, Mrs. Hudson. A good cause. An interesting one at least. Or at least I hope so. I need something to distract me from…” He sighs glumly. Still he feels the lingering effects of Sherrinford. “Unless… you are thinking of John? Oh. Mrs. Hudson – I don’t care for him at all in that manner. My brother will never forgive me. Besides, he isn’t ‘gay’ as he likes to say again and again.” 

“Oh Sherlock. If you are sure.” Mrs. Hudson gently reaches over to rest her hand on Sherlock’s wrist. She had caught the confused interplay of emotions that had crossed John’s face earlier. “I just don’t want you to be hurt.” 

“I am a big boy. I can handle it.” Sherlock offers Mrs. Hudson a smile. His phone vibrates with a new text. He hurries to escape. “I think I better go home-um back to wherever I am staying at.” 

Mrs. Hudson raises an eyebrow, but she sighs again. She doesn’t inquire further. 

***

“This is not what I was expecting.” Sherlock remarks to his brother when he finally sees him at the foyer of a fancy hotel. “You suggested dessert!”

Mycroft offers him a small smile. Small it may be, but it appears to reach his eyes which sparkle with some happiness that Sherlock had never seen before. 

“Oh, there’s dessert aplenty, Lock. One of the world’s most premiere pastry chefs has set up shop and created a delightful dessert bar here, modelled after his previous success in Barcelona. I am sure your sweet tooth will be adequately satisfied.” 

“You look good.” 

Sherlock notes the new suit Mycroft is wearing. No waistcoat, but the blue of his suit really emphasizes his eyes. He finds himself somewhat relieved (and just a bit disappointed(?)) that Mycroft hadn’t worn the same outfit that he had worn the week before. 

God. There must be something supremely wrong with him. It’s within the realm of normality to observe one’s sibling as handsome or gorgeous… but another to… 

_ Ugh.  _

_ Nevermind.  _

_ Think about something else! _

“Thank you, little brother.” Mycroft’s smile only grows larger. He offers his arm to Sherlock, and Sherlock takes it. “And you – you always look… well…”

Sherlock quirks his eyebrow and earns his reward. 

“Divine.” Mycroft finishes. 

“Always, brother mine? I do recall some days where I was a bit… um… under the influence.” Sherlock winces at his words. 

Yes. Mycroft has seen him at his worst. High as fuck from his preference of hard drugs. Withdrawing and turning into a monster desperate to assuage his discomfort (agony) with more drugs. But this had always been his brother’s task, hasn’t it? 

To be his siblings’ keeper?

“I do not hold anything against you, Lock. Please know that.” 

Mycroft gently guides him through the grand foyer, leading him deeper into the hotel, where businessmen are settling down on the comfortable couches to have a drink or two after a long day’s work. There must be a conference or something nearby. 

They check their coats at the desk before moving on. 

“Ah. Here we are.” His brother says as they step into the opulent bar. 

Mycroft gives his name to the maître d, and they are promptly seated at one corner of the marble bar. The place is completely occupied, Sherlock notes, but everyone and everything is spaced apart far enough so that it isn’t too much of a bother. And quiet enough to have a conversation without straining the ears. 

How many months in advance does a regular person have to book a reservation for this exclusive place? Sherlock himself would never go to somewhere like this. This sort of luxury is definitely up Mycroft’s alley though. 

There are warm fuzzy feelings bubbling up inside him. Being at the bar, they are seated rather closely to each other. Mycroft’s knee is practically touching against his own. Even without alcohol, Sherlock could already feel his cheeks flush.

Somehow, this feels more intimate than when Sherlock had been physically entangling himself with his cousin. Sharing kisses on Mrs. Hudson’s couch. Not that Hen-Hen is a bad kisser. No, his titled relation had been a good teacher. Which had been strange of itself. 

If Henry had wanted Sherlock to go with him to make a mockery of Aunt Catty – there would have been no need to fabricate such a  _ real  _ relationship… Who is he really trying to fool? 

But maybe Henny really wants Aunt Catty off his back. He couldn’t imagine it, having to see this dreadful specimen of an aunt for more than once a decade. Somehow, he’s beginning to feel sorry for Henry. And, when he had texted Hen-Hen after Yifei’s visit, Sherlock had been expecting a smug response. But no, Henry had apologized profusely for his past missteps and hoped that they could be – at the very least friends after this situation. 

He shakes his head. 

His brain cannot cope with this right now. 

“Everything alright, Lock?”

“Yeah. I am okay, Mycroft.”

His brother looks at him with concern, but doesn’t press further. A server comes and passes them two glasses of still water, and Mycroft reconfirms with the man with what he had discussed on the phone earlier. Sherlock had tuned the conversation out, too busy muddled in his own thoughts. 

“I just… wanted to come here with you, considering that I haven’t seen you much during the days you’ve been over at my place. And… to make up for the dessert we didn’t have last week.” Mycroft cocks his head slightly, looking directly at Sherlock after having placed his hand gently on Sherlock’s thigh to get his attention once more. “I won’t be at home all weekend.”

Sherlock almost jumps at the sudden contact. It’s like an electric current causing gooseflesh to form beneath his clothes. He could almost hear its crackle. “I know, Mycroft. Neither will I. New case. I will have to leave London on Friday.”

“Oh.” Mycroft looks surprised by Sherlock’s words. His brother doesn’t seem to have noticed the effect of his touch on Sherlock’s person. Mycroft then sighs deeply. “Mummy and Father are coming down to London tomorrow. We are going to talk about the East Wind.” 

Sherlock frowns at the lines that suddenly appear on Mycroft’s face. God. His brother looks exhausted. Older than he actually looks. Now that he examines his brother more closely, he notices the grays intermingled with his dark hair. 

He asks for clarification. “At Whitehall?”

“My public office, yes.” 

“I will be there.” Sherlock says just as their server returns with two glasses of bubbly and sets each glass down in front of them. 

“It’s not necessary.” 

Mycroft’s fingers curl around his glass. His other hand still rests on Sherlock’s thigh. 

Sherlock has never paid so much attention to that square area of flesh in his life. 

“On the contrary, Mycroft, I think it’s very necessary. I am not letting you carry out these  _ unpleasant _ –” He grimaces. “Tasks on your own anymore.” Before Mycroft could argue, Sherlock says firmly. “I won’t let you.”

Mycroft relents, just as the server comes back with a golden platter. The server lays down a gilt spatula with two pieces of chocolate cork laid on it. He explains the dish in detail before moving on. 

Sherlock had heard none of it, while Mycroft had been listening to the man attentively. 

His brain has effectively been held hostage by the presence of Mycroft’s hand. Meanwhile it seems like Mycroft had completely forgotten where he had left his appendage. 

Shakily, Sherlock picks up his cork and takes a bite, savouring the chocolate goodness, before washing it down with the champagne. The meal continues like this, with baklava pistachio pillows, a chocolate and strawberry marshmallow and a golden egg flan. Neither of them talk, happy to turn their mouths to the task of sampling their way through the menu.

When the server comes back with a glass vase bearing two real crimson roses with what looks like a shiny raindrop resting on top of the petals, Sherlock is so rattled that he almost drops his spoon. Mycroft takes one of the roses with nonchalance, and carefully examines it, before bringing the rose to his lips. 

The room suddenly feels too hot. The conversations around them sound like a dull roar (like that of a waterfall). Sherlock’s heart is pounding in a way usually reserved for adrenaline filled moments – like he is just about to come face-to-face with an elusive killer.

Just as Sherlock’s frazzled mind could conjure an image of his brother brushing his lips across the rose’s petals, his brother daintily eats the shiny raindrop and rests his hand holding the flower back onto the table. 

Oh. 

It’s the next dessert. Perhaps he should have paid attention to the menu. 

Not some strange incestuous(?) gesture – good god he’s going mad! 

He takes his rose and repeats what Mycroft had done, almost slurping the drop into his mouth. It explodes with flavours of raspberry, lychee and rosewater. Delicious and a most welcome palate cleanser after the decadent desserts that they had eaten each in turn. He places his rose back in its vase and sips at his champagne. 

The final course arrives. Cheesecake with a plate of crunchy biscuits. There is a white chocolate coating that looks like the wax which coats cheese, and when Sherlock takes his spoon and digs into the cheesecake, he finds a creamy interior which oozes and has a sweet taste tempered with a hint of cheese. 

Good god, it’s the best thing Sherlock’s sweet tooth has ever had. He uses the biscuits to mop up the ooze, and he could tell that this is Mycroft’s favourite dish too from his peripheral vision. 

Damn. It’s nice to watch his brother enjoy something. He looks younger somehow. A treat for the eyes… 

“I suppose the renovations for your flat should be completed soon?”

_ Huh. What?  _

Mycroft gives him a half-fond and half-exasperated look. “I asked whether or not your flat is almost fit for human habitation yet.”

“Oh.” Sherlock straightens himself up. His brother removes his hand from his thigh (finally) and Sherlock feels as if he had just been dipped into the Arctic Ocean. He shivers. “Yeah. It’s almost finished. The construction. That is.” 

The renovation crew had been going at it at all hours of the day. Well, the hours where it was legal to have such loud construction going on. 

“I suppose you will move back out soon?”

“Kicking me out? Happy to have the place on your own again?” Sherlock tries to go for levity, but it just sounds like a jumble of clumsy words. 

It’s a miracle that Mycroft can even decipher what he is saying.

Mycroft huffs. “No. On the contrary, brother mine, I’ve enjoyed the limited amount of time we’ve had together.” He then laughs. “Oh, this is going to sound like such sentimental tosh –”

“Give me your worst.” Sherlock finds himself grinning. 

His brother matches his grin. He then looks genuinely forlorn a few heart beats later. “I will… for the lack of better words… miss you.”

“It’s not a goodbye.” Sherlock says quietly, feeling icier than he had been earlier.

His brother only shakes his head slightly. 

Sherlock feels like this is  _ all wrong! _ And a big fucking idiot! 

Because… before Sherrinford, when did Mycroft and he ever hang out? For fun? For something unrelated to cases? To Mummy and Father? 

Never! 

And those cases that Mycroft had given him over the years… Sherlock had thought that it had been about keeping him occupied so that he couldn’t practice his other recreational activities! They had been a pretense so that Mycroft could see him! No matter how rude and bratty he was! Well, the former reason probably played a role… but that’s neither here nor there. 

“Things are different now. You will see.” 

Sherlock, mainly out of insanity, takes the rose that he had left in the vase – brings its petals to his lips once more and presents the offering to his brother – who is finally looking as off-kilter as Sherlock had felt the entire meal. 

Mycroft opens his mouth. Then promptly closes it again. 

Sherlock has never seen his brother so speechless. So dumbstruck. 

His brother hesitates. The moment seems to stretch forever, pregnant with meaning. Nevertheless, Mycroft’s hand moves closer and tentatively his fingers close around the thornless stem. 

Their eyes meet just as his brother plucks the rose from his hand.

Fuck. Fuck.  _ Fuck! _

What had he just done? 

_ Oh no! The party! _

That ever so helpful voice at the back of his head reminds him, splashing him with a deluge of freezing cold reality. 

He wants to slap himself. 

_ Mrs. Hudson is a witch!  _

Even if she didn’t know the precise details! 

Sherlock pushes it aside aggressively, wanting to enjoy the precious amount of time he has left with his brother. After Mycroft has paid, Sherlock stands up and offers Mycroft his arm this time. 

They stroll out, arm in arm.

***

“So where is she now? My daughter! You can’t keep her away from me forever, Mycroft!” 

Sherlock winces at Mummy’s tone. There is fury in her face after the moment of shock where Mycroft had divulged the truth. 

A similar wince goes through Mycroft’s face. Sherlock rests his hand sympathetically on his brother’s shoulder.  _ Well. Mycroft can keep her away from you forever. _ Sherlock thinks to himself. He had seen the videofeed of sister dear just about half an hour ago. Eurus had been sitting in her chair. No signs of animation on her features. Her hands clasped between her thighs. 

According to the latest report, the East Wind had been in this stuporous state for at least several days now. Moving only to drink, eat or go to the loo. Performing only the barest necessities required to sustain life.

“She is at Sherrinford, where she is being monitored 24/7.” Mycroft explains calmly, but Sherlock can hear the undercurrent of upset that’s in his words. “New security protocols have been implemented to prevent her escape.”

“Do you even hear yourself, Myc! This is your sister! Not a prisoner. What kind of life is this! To think that she’s been locked away for decades! Away from her parents! Her siblings! Not allowed to partake in the –”

Sherlock can feel his brother shrink lower and lower into his seat with every syllable thrown. 

Perhaps it is a bad idea to keep the truth under wraps. But he had promised Mycroft that he wouldn’t talk about the specifics of what happened at Sherrinford. His brother might have cared for what their parents thought of him, but he… he never really did. Mummy and Father had never really understood them. Her children who are too bright and too brilliant for this world. They had all been too happy to sweep under the rug his troubles with the drugs and self-destructive behaviour, wanting to preserve the image of the perfect family in the eyes of others. 

When Mycroft had left him to begin school, that had been a devastating time. Sherlock left behind in a home where no one had understood him. His brother had always been better at coping and playing the game of… life(?) compared to him. He had always held it against him, even if it wasn’t Mycroft’s fault that he had to leave the nest. Childish. But Sherlock had been a child despite all his intelligence. 

“Well, Mummy –” Sherlock interrupts. Both his parents' eyes go from Mycroft to himself. Mummy looks hopefully at him, but he quickly dashes her hopes. “She is a prisoner. She is unfit for a life outside. If you do not recall, she has killed. And she will kill again. She is the reason why Musgrave no longer is standing.” He then closes his eyes and says what he thinks is the truth. “Perhaps it would have been a mercy had she actually perished in the fire all those years ago.” 

“She’s older now, Sherlock. She’s had time to learn. You can’t possibly believe that, Sherlock – that she’s better off dead! We all make mistakes. Like you and your –”

“Do not compare what I’ve done to what she’s done. She has done everything possible to destroy my life.” Sherlock’s jaw is twitching with his own fury as his hands slam down on Mycroft’s desk with a loud thud. “If you think we can play happy families after everything that has happened, you are delusional – Mother. I am sure Mycroft will give you two permission to see her. He will arrange the flight for you next week.”

There is a silence, before Mummy speaks again with great disapproval. “I am disappointed. In both of you. I expected better, especially from you – Myc.” 

“Then be disappointed.” Sherlock is still riled up – just as their parents move to leave. “Mycroft did his best, and I won’t have you two lambaste him any further.” 

The both of them watch as their parents leave the room. 

Mycroft releases the sigh that he had been holding and slumps onto his desk when the door closes behind them. He had expected this meeting to go pear-shaped, knowing how much their mother had wanted a daughter and her delight when she had been born. 

But still, her words had felt like daggers to his chest. Considering how much he had done to keep her safe and the world safe from her.

What he hadn’t expected was Sherlock’s defense of him. It had felt nice to have a knight to defend him for once, even if it hadn’t been necessary. 

Sherlock and he hadn’t talked much about Sherrinford, but he knows little brother has forgiven him. And that rose! Mycroft had dared to hope when Sherlock had offered them to him. Affection. Little Lock had brought him flowers when he had been a child. When they had been each other’s sun. 

When they had gone home that night, Mycroft had stayed up to press the flower into a book. A reminder of love for hard days sure to come. 

The way Sherlock had looked at him last night. If he had to be objective about it, there had been nothing brotherly about it. The way his eyes darkened as his pupils dilated. The flush in his cheeks under the warm lighting of the bar. The tension(?) that is very much between them. Mycroft had never felt this pull ever with any of his previous conquests. 

His brother’s hand moves from his shoulder and suddenly Mycroft finds himself surrounded by Sherlock’s arms. It’s a supportive embrace, meant for comfort – and Mycroft sinks into it. He would rather have Sherlock over their parents any day anyways. And this is more than he had ever had dreamed of. He could smell the mix of Sherlock’s favourite hair products and just a hint of the cologne that Sherlock prefers. It’s a delicious scent. 

It’s also been a long time since Mycroft had been touched by another person, and he’s forgotten how good it could be. And infinitely more so now that it is Lock who is touching him so voluntarily. He doesn’t know how long the hug lasts, but Sherlock breaks from him eventually. 

“Thank you.” Mycroft tilts his head up toward Sherlock, who is now standing at his full height again. 

“I am only doing what I should be doing, brother mine.” Sherlock says quietly – his eyes darkening as Mycroft had seen the night before. “There’s no need to thank me. The crux is that at the end of the day, we only have each other. Us against the world. I just…” Sherlock swallows awkwardly before proceeding. “Want to be there for you too. As you have for me. Unconditionally.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mycroft can almost feel a tear fall from his eye.

“Sh. Mycroft. We can’t have you getting too sentimental.” Sherlock squats down a little and wipes the tear away from his cheek. “What would your minions think?”

Mycroft could only chuckle, and Sherlock grins. “See, you are smiling now. Mission successful.” 


	4. Where they go to Westbourne

“Nice rockpile.” Sherlock turns to look at Henry when they finally pull up to the estate after having driven through kilometers and kilometers of wild woodland. 

“Don’t let Mummy hear you. She’s rather fond of the old place. As am I. There’s nowhere like it. Westbourne.” Henry kills the engine of his Lamborghini. “Parker will deal with the parking. And the luggage. No need to worry.” 

The doors automatically rotate upwards, and Sherlock strides out into the sunlight. He delights in the warmth of the spring day, stretching his cramped limbs as he goes. It reminds him of the pleasures of his childhood, where spring meant venturing outdoors. 

Westbourne stands in front of him. 

It is a large stone building with two sets of elegant stairs sweeping upwards to the centrally located front doors. It is situated in a valley, and blends in with its natural surroundings. The sound of birdsong can be heard as well as the gurgle of a nearby stream cutting through the property. The child-Sherlock would have been on cloud-nine to explore the grounds; a beautiful place for endless adventures.

“Blanche will want us to go horseback riding in the afternoon. Do you ride, Sherlock?” Henry asks him, breaking him from his reveries down Memory Lane. 

“It’s been a long while.” Sherlock admits. “We used to have a pair of horses. At Musgrave. Filly and Starburst.” He then frowns.

Henry picks up on it. “The fire.”

“Yes.” Sherlock sighs. 

It’s depressing, now that he looks back upon it. His childhood (crazy sister aside) had been an idyllic one. He had loved the horses. Filly and her love for apples that Sherlock would hide in his pocket. Starburst (who had been Mycroft’s horse) had always followed him around, looking for attention whenever he had visited the barn to tease the cats. 

It’s amazing how Victor’s death had pushed everything that he had once enjoyed out of mind. 

“It’s alright. I will give you a refresher. Riding a horse is the best way to see the grounds anyways. Come, come, we are just in time for lunch I believe!”

“Who is here right now?” Sherlock inquires. 

He isn’t looking forward to being in the spotlight so soon. 

“My little brother – Evan and Sylvia – his wife. She’s pregnant and the nicest girl you would ever meet. It’s hard to believe that little brother is going to be a father. Mummy, of course. Lady of the household. She’s the opposite of Aunt Catty – she will be happy to see you. Spencer said he would be here for lunch. He’s driving in from Oxford. He’s my best friend outside the family. We grew up together doing stupid things. It’s a wonder that any of us are alive to tell the tale, really. Blanche and Yifei will be coming in the late afternoon. Blanche is working –”

“What does she do?” Sherlock asks, needing to start collecting his information. 

“She’s an A&E physician. She puts us men all to shame, really. Does triathlons for fun, if you can’t believe it. Spent her time volunteering for Médecins Sans Frontières for a year. Charitable to the extreme.” 

“Sounds like a saint.” Sherlock shakes his head. 

Saintly people usually give him a migraine, although the closets that many tend to keep can be filled with intriguing skeletons.

“She grew up in a household full of boys. Yet she is the wildest of us all! We all adore her.” Henry offers Sherlock his arm, and they walk up the marble steps. “Then Aunt Catty’s family will show up. Lizzie – the younger sister, and Lorelei the oldest. Uncle Edward is her husband. Quiet little sidepiece. He probably wouldn’t show up, he’s always on business somewhere. But, I suspect he rather despises these fancy dos. And finally – your brother. The day before the party is for family only, generally speaking. Father himself won’t be here till tomorrow. He has some business to take care of. He will come with the Chinese Ambassador – Huang Liwei with a display of oriental treasures that Mummy has been looking forward to seeing greatly.” 

At the door, Henry reaches for the dragon-head door knocker and lets it fall thrice. The door opens a few seconds later, where a butler is waiting. 

The graying man is dressed sharply in a tuxedo with a pinstripe shirt, and he calls out. 

“Young Master Henry! It’s wonderful to see you, sir.”

“Likewise, Parker. This is Sherlock – my partner –” 

“Ah, Lady Worcester did say you were bringing your special someone. Welcome Sherlock! To Westbourne! Come in, come in. Your coats, please!”

Sherlock relinquishes his coat (it’s starting to get too warm for coats anyways, inside or outside) after taking out his phone. Henry does the same. 

“Ah, you young rascals and your mobile devices –”

“I left the car outside, Parker.” Henry casually tosses him the keys after Parker had dealt with their coats. “Don’t do too many tricks! You know any accidents, and Father will blame me!”

“Indeed sir, I shall contain myself to a few doughnuts.” The line is delivered rather dryly.

Henry claps Parker on the back. “Ah, a man after my own heart!”

“Off with you! Your Mummy demands your presence!” 

Soon Sherlock finds himself in a large parlour(?) room. The high walls are painted a muted shade of yellow, with ornate creamy white plaster moldings. Even the ceilings have paintings! There are damask curtains. The wooden floor slats arranged in pleasing geometric patterns. Couches and armchairs are aplenty and –

“Oi! Hen-Hen!” 

“Gods! Not you too, Spencer?” Henry is swept up into a big hug by an otherwise serious-looking man roughly around the same age as Henry. 

Sherlock examines him. 

Lawyer by trade. Professor at Oxford. Plays football and rugby recreationally. Loves horses and likely spends money on betting on them. Has a fondness for card games. Has a dog. By the fur clinging onto his shirt, a beagle. Probably keeps hounds for hunting. The son of the recently widowed Lord Ancaster. The only child and heir. 

Sherlock had done some reading from Burke’s Peerage and skimmed some tabloids known to keep up with the modern-day aristocracy. 

Importantly, Spencer isn’t as well off as Sherlock’s titled relations. The Ancaster fortunes have been dwindling from generation to generation due to a love of hedonistic excesses with rumours of the coveted ancestral pile soon to be offered up to the market. 

“Good to see you, you old lug. I thought of you, you know – when Swansea was battering ‘Pool the other day. Wonder how many pints you were sobbing into –”

“Nice to see you too. It’s a lame duck anyways. Leicester bloody won the league already. I am still shocked, I tell you!” 

“You are Sherlock!” Spencer immediately turns away from his friend and shakes Sherlock’s hand with great gusto. “I’ve heard lots about you. Welcome to Bedlam! Say, why don’t you… deduce me!”

“Now, now – Spence, my man is  _ not _ your party trick.” 

Sherlock idly watches as the two friends start arguing. Over him out of all things. It’s oddly sweet. Even though it’s just playful stupid banter, more like the type that happens when John and Lestrade end up in a pub together with a few pints in. It’s obvious that they have been friends from the crib. Spencer is more excitable and has a tendency to gesticulate with his hands as he speaks, compared to the more calm state of Henry.

He had always loathed it whenever people demanded him to deduce them for a lark, especially back at Oxford. Shit. Henry must have known. About the parties that Sherlock had gone to, and how people had looked at him as if he was a sideshow freak rather than an actual person. At the very least, Henry’s snobbishness in his youth had applied to everyone equally. So… he had that going for him...

“You alright, Lock?” Henry looks at him with concern a few moments later. It’s strange, having his cousin call him by the nickname that Mycroft had used for him when he had been a child. Henry smiles rather sadly. “I was a berk when we were in Uni together. You used to hang about with Seb and his set… those blokes –” He shakes his head. “They were –”

“I know. Mycroft tells me the same.” Sherlock shuts his eyes. He doesn’t want to be reminded of those years. Sherrinford had effectively brought back all the memories. The good and the bad and the goddamned awful! 

Henry gently reaches for his hand. He leans over to kiss his cheek. “Let me know if anyone is giving you a hard time, and I will deal with them.”

“I am not a damsel.” Sherlock crosses his arms. 

“I know. But… you are my guest, and I want you to enjoy the home that I’ve loved all my life.” Henry says with great sincerity. “Now that old Spence is gone, anything you want to share?”

“I thought I wasn’t a party trick!”

“Deductions and seductions should be limited to me only.” Henry winks. 

“That’s terrible!” Sherlock makes a face, before grabbing a cushion to smack him with from the nearby armchair and his cousin laughs freely. 

“Come, Mummy is waiting for us!” 

***

“Good afternoon, Aunt Catherine!” Henry jumps up from the chair in the iris-coloured drawing room to greet her in an exaggerated lordly fashion approximately an hour after their light lunch of sandwiches. He then turns politely to each one of her daughters in turn. “Lorelei. Lizzie.” 

Lorelei is tall with blonde curls artlessly falling down her shoulders. She is wearing a burgundy dress in the favoured style of the previous year. 

Sherlock had heard throughout the years that Aunt Catty had rather old-fashioned ideas for her daughters, preferring them not to be blue stockings. Meaning that she did not want them to work or study, but to find a rich man to marry. Apparently, neither of her daughters had managed the feat and Aunt Catty is apparently at her wits’ end. 

Hm… by Lorelei’s fingers, Sherlock has a feeling that she had been learning and working behind her Mum’s back. Computer programming, perhaps. Fascinating. An easy job to hide. As the money and property in the family may only be inherited by male heirs (thanks to the old-fashioned trusts that had been drawn up god knows how long ago), there is a good chance that with their father’s death, both women will have to work for a living. 

Lorelei curtsies to Henry and says. “It’s good to see you again, my Lord.” 

Sherlock catches the grimace of Henry’s face with the use of his title. 

He turns to look at the younger sister. Elizabeth. Lizzie. Her eyes are glued to her cousin. Her hair is shoulder-length and brown in colouration. No secret job here. She wears a delicate lacy dress, showing off just a bit of her cleavage. Has a boyfriend somewhere. One that her Aunt disproves of, or doesn’t know about. Not too much otherwise Sherlock could get from her… 

“Henry.” She smiles in a way that reminds Sherlock of Molly simpering after him. 

Aunt Catty’s gaze falls upon Sherlock. Before she could inquire about him with obvious distaste flashing in her eyes, Henry smiles and says with a big shit-eating smile. “I would like you all to meet my significant other.”

Sherlock stands up from the couch and steps forward. 

Henry’s arm immediately wraps around Sherlock’s waist and brings him close. “My darling Sherlock.” His tone goes all soft and affectionate. Sherlock catches Henry’s blue ones, and it’s incredibly difficult not to laugh. Instead, they turn just a little bit more, and let their lips brush against the other’s for a quick moment in an effort to contain themselves before separating.

“Oh, Lord Dawlish, I do wish you would grow up. You are almost forty now! It is not the time for dalliances with men! Think about your station in life! It’s time to settle down. With a wife.” Aunt Catty looks sternly at him as she tries to keep her tone steady. However, she can’t quite hide the displeased flush of her face, looking more like a pressure cooker trying to prevent itself from blowing up. If Sherlock applies just enough imagination, he can almost hear that whistling sound coming out of her ears. “Your brother certainly has managed to do so –”

“I am gay, Aunt Catherine – or perhaps, in your lingo – I would be a confirmed bachelor.” 

“And to bring  _ that _ uncouth man into your mother’s house! Unbelievable! Did you know what happened to my second-best dress? It’s  _ completely _ ruined! How dare you?”

Henry is utterly unfazed. “Oh Auntie, dear – it was an accident wasn’t it, Lock? I am sure he’s terribly sorry about it. Look! We are all family, Aunt Catty –”

There’s a muffled snicker behind them as Aunt Catty’s face turns a further shade of puce at the revelation of her newly acquired nickname. 

Evan, Henry’s youngest brother, had buried his face in his arm, and is busy trying to contain his sudden fit with some coughs. The game of piquet that he had been playing with Spencer at the table had been temporarily forgotten, as both parties had turned to attend to the far more entertaining conversation. 

Sherlock had deduced him earlier over a simple but hearty lunch of sandwiches and soup. The biological brothers look similar, but the quieter Evan prefers casualwear of jeans, t-shirts and runners. He spends his time working at the local pet shelter (this was confirmed in conversation). He liked to paint and make things with his hand (eg. woodworking, origami and pottery). His wife is soon to be due to deliver their son, who will in all likelihood be the next generation heir to the family title and wealth; therefore, removing the burden from Henny. 

“And – I won’t have you slandering my love. Mummy approves of him. Come, my dear – let me show you the Library.” Henry turns to give Sherlock a flirtatious look – much to Aunt Catty’s audible disgust, and escorts him out of the room. 

Just as they leave, Sherlock catches Lizzie glaring at him. 

And he wonders.

***

The golden chestnut horse looks at him warily, pawing at the ground with his hooves. 

_ Sundance. _ Henry had introduced. Sherlock takes a step forward and touches him on the head, offering scratches. Sundance snorts impatiently, before realizing that Sherlock had a carrot in his other hand. A friendlier nicker escapes from him, and he leans downward to take the treat.  _ Easily bought by treats. _ Henry had mentioned. Sherlock grabs the reins and leads Sundance out of the barn, where Blanche (who had dropped off her things with Parker as soon as she had arrived and made a run for the stables) is waiting on top of her mount – Poseidon. 

“Hi, Sherlock. It’s nice to see you.” She gives him a confident smile. “I heard you gave Aunt Catty  _ quite _ a memorable evening.” 

“She had it coming.” Sherlock mumbles.

Blanche laughs carelessly, tossing her head and braid back. It’s clear she has no love lost for her aunt. “Someone needs to extract that stick up her arse, that’s for sure. But I am afraid it’s too late for her anyways.” She sighs wistfully. “I wish I could come back home more often. I miss the horses. The grounds. Mummy too. Sometimes… I wish we never grew up.” 

“Coming back here always makes one feel young!” Spencer observes, trotting over with his horse. “Nothing like a tongue-lashing about propriety from Aunt Catty to make you feel like a snotty-nosed child again. Truly invigorating! Makes me forget that I teach at a prestigious institution now!” 

“Funny. Aunt Catty just lectured me not too long ago for not having joined the ranks of adulthood. Growing up is boring… anyhow.” Henry joins them with his dark mare. He kicks over something that looks like a large set of steps. “Here, Lock – here’s the mounting block. I will hold him steady.” 

“She needs to give up her Victorian fantasies. Born a century too late –” Blanche shuts her mouth when Lizzie trots up with her steed. “Afternoon, Lizzie!”

Sherlock is perched in the saddle. While the others gather and chat – having changed the topic for Lizzie’s sake, Henry gives Sherlock a quick run over on how to ride and steer a horse. 

“You will do just fine, darling. I will be with you at all times.” 

***

Sundance is an agreeable horse. Sherlock muses when they are trotting through the woods. It really does bring him back to his childhood. Musgrave’s forests had the same sort of wonder that had captivated him as a kid. 

Henry points out various landmarks and places where they had frolicked as children, including one particular apple tree where Spencer and he had scattered apples all around the ground to attract the horses, and they would try and leap onto the horses backs from the tree branches when they had been children. Miraculously, no one (or horse) had broken anything. 

The others had long disappeared, cantering and galloping straight into the heart of the property, following the course of the stream that meanders around the grounds. 

***

“Everyone went out to ride.” Lady Worcester gestures out toward the woods from the terrace connected to the kitchen.

“It’s a lovely day for that.” Mycroft says politely. 

“Indeed. My son has brought home a boyfriend.” 

“Really? So he’s finally made it out of the closet then?” 

“He really thought that George and I would take the news badly. But no, we knew decades ago! As if I would ever disown my darling boy for loving someone!” 

Mycroft allows the conversation to die off a bit, before continuing. “Is Sir Percival coming tomorrow?” 

“I believe so. Oh. Mycroft – you are just like my husband! All work and no fun!” She scolds and informs him simultaneously at once. 

“He’s an intriguing man.” 

“George finds him amusing. I would prefer if he never darkens our humble abode ever again. I don’t know if those rumours were true –”

“No conclusive evidence was ever found.”

Lady Worcester would not be quelled. “The parties he attends! Ruined many a young girl, so I’ve heard. Good friends with Prince Andrew, but they’ve always been first-rate sleazeballs! The MI5 no doubt have their hands busy keeping things under wraps. George thinks I am too cynical, but what in heaven do men know!?”

Mycroft makes a polite noise of deference. 

Unlike Aunt Catty, her sister-in-law is probably the most tolerable extended relative he has. But sometimes, she mixes fancy and shrewd observations together, and ends up with something that approximates the truth that is usually too close for anyone’s comfort. 

He’s never particularly liked this particular aspect of his job, covering for the faults of the Royal Family – but alas, it’s something that must be done to keep the status quo. Not something he necessarily always approves of, but even he cannot work against the tide of tradition. Sherlock has always hated it, this aspect of Mycroft’s job. 

And Mycroft knows better now. After the nonsense of the Adler case, he will give these sorts of cases to his agents. Not his brother. And  _ not  _ because a certain someone had captured his brother’s attention to the point where she had forced the both of them to commit treason at that one scary moment… Or because Mycroft had been  _ jealous  _ that Adler had been able to ensnare his little brother. Oh. No. Not at all!

Lady Worcester actually laughs, startling Mycroft out of his thoughts. She gives him a most amused smile. “Ah. You are a political soul to the nth degree! Can’t even give your Aunt some gossip? I know you have all the answers I am dying to have! You give nothing away! Georgie always said you were a machine. The most perfect tool of the British government – oh here they come!” She points toward the horizon at the peak of a hill, where there are the distinct sounds of hoofbeats approaching. 

Mycroft recognizes all the riders of course. The skilled Blanche in the lead, her braid whipping around in the wind. Spencer galloping hot on her tails, while the rest come trotting about at a more sedate pace. And then, at the end comes Lord Dawlish… and – Mycroft’s mouth drops. He feels like the air had been knocked brutally out of his lungs.

“Ah, you didn’t know? Henry brought home your little brother.” 


	5. Before the Party

This… must be some joke! 

Mycroft follows his hostess back to the estate once the horses have passed by in bewilderment. 

This couldn’t possibly be little brother who had the utmost disdain for literally every member of their family?! Especially their titled relations! 

His mind replays the memory. Sherlock riding astride a horse, displaying a surprisingly fine seat in the saddle trimmed with a royal blue – cutting an enviable figure. The same brother who had shared a carefree laugh with Lord Dawlish over something he had found genuinely amusing. Just as the horses had cantered by, Sherlock turned to Lord Dawlish and said something incendiary before urging his horse into a full-throttle gallop, and Lord Dawlish had scoffed loudly and went tearing after him in a reckless race. 

Sherlock hadn’t even appeared to notice Mycroft. 

“How long had they been together?” Mycroft finds himself asking.

Lady Worcester smiles. She is evidently proud of the match. “Neither gave specifics, but they seem awfully comfortable around each other. When they talk, it appears as their relationship has flourished under wraps in the magnitude of months!” 

Mycroft sighs. He can’t help but feel a tad betrayed. What had he done to deserve this?  _ Oh. Plenty.  _ He frowns. Is this the price for these incestuous feelings? His failure toward his brother for failing to protect him from their sister? Had he been so inattentive to Sherlock’s doings over the past few months that he had missed this important development in his life? 

And now, he would see first hand what he could never have?

The Lady of the House changes the topic of conversation, but he’s no longer attentively listening to her words. 

***

“You have a fine seat, Sherlock. I heard you do not ride often.” Blanche praises when they head back to the house for dinner after having returned their steeds to the stables. 

“I don’t ride at all. Haven’t done so since I was a child.” 

“Lucky! You are a natural.” Lorelei exclaims with appreciation. 

“What did you think of the grounds, Lock?” Henry butts in, taking his customary spot beside Sherlock. 

“They are beautiful. Perfect to get lost in.” Sherlock assesses, even though he himself hadn’t stepped foot willingly in nature in decades. 

In his adulthood, he had always preferred the jungle of concrete and humanity that is London, but now… after so much has happened, he can see the merits of the wilderness once more. It’s soothing, riding a horse and feeling the elements against his face. The warm rays of the sun. The gentle breeze. The scents of growing things in the spring.

“Does your brother not like to ride, Blanche?” Sherlock makes an inquiry.

“Yifei is afraid of horses.” Blanche sighs. “Brother has few faults, but this is certainly one of them. He prefers to be in the Library reading the Classics in their original languages.”

Sherlock still isn’t quite sure who had written the blackmailing note to Yifei. It’s likely that the culprit is here with them today, considering the use of the ‘box’. It would also be someone who is staying overnight tomorrow after the party. Which is everyone who is currently present, plus a few from tomorrow. He would have to see if he could get a hold of a guest list or something. There are people he can definitely rule out without too much trouble. 

But… Mycroft! He had caught his brother’s expression when he had ridden past him. When his brother had been standing next to Lady Worcester up on that terrace. Only Sherlock could read the subtleties of Mycroft’s countenance when he has on a mask (and Sherlock isn’t an expert by any means). Mycroft had looked… upset. Shocked. Maybe even… betrayed. Sherlock had mentioned to Mycroft that he would be away over the weekend to solve a case. Surely big brother could put the clues together? Or is he expecting too much from his all-knowing big brother?

“You really should tell Mum about Tom.” Lorelei is saying a few metres ahead of Sherlock to her sister. “You two have been seeing each other for almost a year now.” 

“Mum would never accept him. He’s a pharmacist! No titles. Average salary. No prospects of something bigger. No. It’s easier this way, Lori. Besides, we are just having fun, anyhow.” 

“Oh, Lizzie! You can’t possibly be still hung up on –”

“Please, Lori, I beg of you – let’s not talk about my love life in front of everyone –”

“You owe me money.” Lorelei says even more quietly. 

“I know, I know – I will pay you back with next month’s allowance when I get it. I promise.”

“You should have never bought that bag.” 

“I just had to have it. It just goes so well with that cute little dress that I bought last month!” Lizzie declares. “Oh, Lori – you know that I always get what I want at the end. Don’t you worry, sister.” 

“Lady Worcester was given a new necklace for her birthday. Pearls!” Lori says wistfully, changing the topic for her sister’s benefit. “I heard they were worth thousands upon thousands of pounds from Mummy. Maybe even a million! Or several! A strand fit for a movie star! Father would never buy Mum something like that.”

“Oh! Maybe she will let us wear them at some point. It would be  _ so  _ thrilling!” 

Sherlock completely loses interest in the conversation, and he focuses on the scenery around him.

“We should have a game of Hide & Seek after dinner.” Henry says to Spencer. “You know, the version where you would have to catch the other person to be caught. Relive the old childhood days.”

“The women would never agree.” Spencer looks toward the sisters. “Don’t you remember how Aunt Catty yelled at us for compromising her daughters’ integrity back so long ago with such a game?”

“Aunt Catty, thou sendest mixed messages. She wants us to marry her daughters, but won’t let us have a little harmless lark in this day and age? I don’t understand that woman. Besides, I just heard Blanche earlier – lamenting that we all had to grow up and fly.” 

“Oh, you should ask them. It’s not like either of them would dare say ‘no’ to you, milord.” Spencer smirks. “They all think I am a penniless rake.”

“Would it not be most entertaining if we could convince Cousin Mycroft to join us?”

“That stuffed suit? He would never!” Spencer laughs. “Bet you a fiver.”

“Now, bets like these are why people automatically relegate you to the poorhouse, Spence.”

“Oh, Henny – you say the nicest things!” 

“Sherlock – darling, you alright?” Henry lazily wraps an arm around Sherlock’s waist, pointedly ignoring Spencer’s dramatics. 

“Yeah. Just feeling nostalgic.” Sherlock sighs, feeling the familiar pull of gloomy emotions. 

How could he explain that he had just gotten a huge chunk of missing memory back? Mycroft and he had never played Hide & Seek together, but there certainly had been many a chase that had occurred during Sherlock’s childhood. Sherlock dashing off ahead without a care in the world with big brother not far behind him, making sure that Sherlock wouldn’t get hurt from his moments of sheer boldness.  _ Or stupidity! _

And isn’t that true even now? His flirtations with Moriarty. His travels around the world to dismantle Moriarty’s network, with big brother’s guidance and assistance. Mycroft fearing that he couldn’t catch Sherlock in time the day Sherlock had dispatched Magnussen. His brother’s scolding afterwards – all because Mycroft had cared. 

Fuck. Sherlock would have to be the chaser now… he had started it anyways… with the rose… no wonder Mycroft had been so hurt… his brother has a tendency to lose his edge when it comes to him. He would have missed the subtle clues to inform himself that Sherlock’s latest lark is an exercise in deception. 

Now that he thinks about it, Mycroft had accepted his flower way too easily. They hadn’t talked at all about the state of their relationship since that night. 

(Typical!) 

Had… his brother always wanted this from him? This something more? 

> “I would do anything for you.”

Mycroft had said while kissing Sherlock’s curls.

And isn’t that the crux of it all? 

What was incest compared to treason (of the country that Mycroft had served so faithfully for so long?)? The coverage of Sherlock numerous legal offenses? They had broken so many laws between them that… 

He should have just told Mycroft the truth. 

But the real (stupid!) truth remains that Sherlock hadn’t wanted to share his case. His brother had loved to beat him to the solutions in the past, and Sherlock had disliked that very much. 

_ What to do? _

Mercifully, Hen-hen doesn’t inquire any further, but lets his arm curl comfortingly around Sherlock’s waist.

***

“Something wrong with the food, Mycroft?” Lady Worcester scrutinizes Mycroft with concern.

Mycroft sighs dejectedly at his plate. 

One of the highlights of coming to Westbourne is the bountiful of culinary delights that the chef – Auguste – conjures up. Tonight’s fare is up to the usual standard – a juicy roast duck, a hearty fish soup, a generous bowlful of Dorset crab salad, the platter of oysters, the caramelized onion tarts and the hearty chicken, leek and mushroom pie – but he has lost his appetite. 

His eye glances now and then at Sherlock who is sitting at the other end of the table – where he is cozying up with his… boyfriend. Lord Dawlish has his hand on Sherlock’s arm, and Sherlock doesn’t seem to have a problem with it. Strange for a little brother who liked his personal space. And fond for two boys who had once hated each other’s guts. But then again, Sherlock had hated his guts before… if those diet jokes were any indication… And little brother has deplorable standards for doling out forgiveness to undeserving parties! 

“I am just… not hungry.”

“Ah… too bad!” The Lady tuts sympathetically. “No need for diets when you are here, dear boy. We are people who live life to the fullest. And I do love to see people enjoy their food.” 

Mycroft cringes slightly. 

He focuses on the soup, considering that it is the least offensive to his upset stomach. As much as he enjoys good food, his appetite is linked to his moods. And jealousy(?) – is not conducive for digestion. For once, he wishes that dinner was over – that the party was done with – so that he could go home and mope. 

***

“Your brother… he doesn’t seem very happy, does he?” 

Henry notes when the desserts had all been brought out. He surveys the array of cheeses, the fresh fruit, the trifle and the little glassfuls of tiramisu. 

“I don’t know what’s up with him.” Sherlock says quietly. 

He has a hunch he does indeed know what is wrong with his brother. He just doesn’t know how to fix this. There’s nothing more depressing than watching Mycroft pick at his food listlessly. 

“I mean, of course, he’s the almighty shadow of Her Majesty’s government, but I’ve never seen him… appear so human. Hm. Guess I take it for granted the façades that people project as their public faces.” Henry says thoughtfully. “I am still learning to not assume things about people based on my initial impressions. It’s not easy to get over a lifetime’s worth of stereotyping and prejudice.”

“Still think I am beneath you?” Sherlock arches a careful eyebrow.

“Mm… I would love for you to be beneath me.” Henry winks. 

“Nasty man!” Sherlock remarks, and Henry laughs. 

“I didn’t think you would be a prude.” 

“Perhaps I would like just a little bit more finesse with the wooing.”

“My god, Sherlock – that almost sounded like something Aunt Catty would say.” Henny then looks around. Seeing that everyone is occupied with others or themselves, he asks shrewdly. “You’ve never been in a real relationship before, haven’t you? Not that I am judging.”

“Nothing meaningful.” 

“Ah, I should find you someone. It’s the least I could do. You will be quite a catch when I am done with you – ouch!” 

Henry shakes his head ruefully after Sherlock had given him the elbow.

And Sherlock notices that there are other unhappy people at this table. Yifei, for instance, brooding a few seats away. Probably thinking about his blackmailer, no doubt. 

***

_ This is inane. _

Mycroft thinks as Lord Dawlish turns around and starts counting. Everyone who had agreed to join this lark is easily long past the age of thirty. 

Children play this game! 

When Lord Dawlish had asked him about whether or not he wished to participate, Mycroft had been about to scoff a biting refusal, but his eyes had met Sherlock’s for a brief crazy second. He had found himself changing his answer from an ‘Absolutely not!’ to a reluctant nod before he had even realized it! 

Most of the party had scattered by the time Lord Dawlish had reached the number five. Sherlock is still there, watching Mycroft with unfathomable eyes. It’s always so hard to be angry at Lock. Who had always been his kryptonite. Sister dear had always been duty, but Lockie – indulgence. 

And even now, he wants to yell at him. Rant and rave like every other fool under the sun who had fallen in love and been given false hopes. Unfortunately, things aren’t so simple. All he could think of is how nicely this gray shirt of Lock’s clings just so to his torso – and…

Sherlock’s hand gently touches his arm. 

_ What are you doing to me, little brother?  _ When had Sherlock ever been such a ‘player’ for a lack of a better term? And behind his boyfriend’s back? 

Sherlock gives a huff of impatience, and he tugs at Mycroft’s suit jacket, indicating that he wanted him to follow. And so he does. Up the stairs, down some stairs and through some dimly lit hallways. There are distant sounds of giggling from the other players, but they don’t encounter anyone along the way. 

“What –”

“Sh!” Sherlock shushes him when he pulls him into an unoccupied guest bedroom, shuts the door and drags him into an empty wardrobe.

All Mycroft could manage is sputter. “If they find us here, people will talk!”

“Goldfish do little else, Mycie.” 

“So… why did you bring me here?” Mycroft is trying to whisper, but his indignation still shines through. 

“So I can talk to you without people listening? Mycroft. I should have told you.” 

“That what? That you are in a relationship with Lord Dawlish…”  _ Whose guts you hated!?! _

“No. That nothing is as it seems. Here.” 

“Sherlock… are you in trouble?” Mycroft asks with concern. 

“Oddly enough, the twin beasts of greed and jealousy run rampant in all classes of British society. I don’t like it, Mycroft –”

“You are speaking in circles.” Mycroft huffs in annoyance. “Why won’t you give me a straight answer?”

“Because that would be boring.” Sherlock says dryly. 

“God forbid that things be boring.” Mycroft sighs glumly. “I for one – after Sherrinford – would prefer that things go back to dull and routine.” 

Sherlock grasps Mycroft’s wrist. “Is that what you really want, brother dear?” 

Even though they cannot see each other in the dark, Mycroft could sense those iridescent eyes looking directly at him. Sherlock has always had expressive eyes, and he can almost feel them burning into him – seeing things that Mycroft isn’t sure what he’s seeing. 

Before he could answer, Sherlock whispers urgently. “Don’t say anything now. It’s not safe to discuss this. After. When we are  _ home. _ We both came here to do something, so let’s do our jobs and leave –”

“What am I to you, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks, wanting an answer that he is sure Sherlock is not going to provide. 

“I am  _ not  _ playing games with you – Mycroft… I can promise you that.” 

Sherlock stops speaking when they hear footsteps growing louder from outside the room. There is a soft sound of the wardrobe door sliding open and Sherlock steps out. 

Mycroft can feel his heart begin to race. Even more so when he feels a hand rest over his chest. Across his heart. It is a gentle short caress, but Mycroft felt every micrometre of that intimate touch across his skin. It’s almost as if Sherlock is staking his claim. Sherlock had leaned over slightly, and Mycroft could feel his hot breath ghost against his face, sending shivers down his spine. 

Creak… Creak....  _ CREAK! _

“I think there’s someone in there.” The voice of Lord Cavendish can be heard from the outside.

“Let’s check then, Spence.” Lord Dawlish drawls. 

The footsteps stop in front of the door.

Mycroft makes a move to step outside the wardrobe, but he feels Sherlock’s hand pushing against him, indicating that he should stay. 

Sherlock quietly slips away, avoiding the creaky floorboards, and Mycroft sighs and settles for shutting the wardrobe door again. Then, he sees light through the cracks in the wardrobe, followed by hearing the sudden patter of feet making a run for it and Lord Dawlish shouting. “After him!” 

Mycroft slumps down to the floor of the wardrobe, listening as the din dies away. He hugs his knees to his chest, and he ponders on the sentences that Sherlock had said. Is it a business transaction then? Sherlock had said he had a case over the weekend. Lord Dawlish doesn’t seem like a man who needs a fake boyfriend. Mycroft hadn’t been scrutinizing the current members of the household, figuring that there was nothing worth deducing about them – but it’s evident that Sherlock has been. 

> The twin beasts of greed and jealousy run rampant here. 

Good god. Is there to be a murder? 

Mycroft certainly hopes not! 

Suddenly, he feels a burning wish for this weekend to be over so that Sherlock and he can finally have that conversation that has been eluding them. 

Sherlock is right. They can’t go around discussing this sort of thing in foreign spaces. 

It would only lead to trouble.

***

Sherlock pants when he finally reaches the spacious kitchen. 

The space is dimmed and devoid of life. The entrance to the old servants’ quarters are here too, although no one really uses it anymore. Parker has his own room on the ground floor, as does any member of the staff that stays overnight to help with the guests whenever Lord Worcester gives his parties. Earlier, Hen-Hen had shown Sherlock a floor plan of the house, and also a long list of the people in attendance tomorrow. 

For a ‘small’ party, it’s rather… large. 

> “I don’t know why you want to see this, Sherlock. I thought you didn’t care about the who’s who.” Henry had observed. “Unless…” He had clapped his hands together. “You think there will be a murder?!” He then chuckles delightedly. “That would be the most interesting thing that would happen, instead of catching people that shouldn’t be together making out in the alcoves.” 

Why does everyone think that murders happen around him? He gets called to solve murders, not commit them. Well… he’s killed a few people here and there, but he doesn’t like to think about it. And how Henry had said it – like a murder is an amusement. Gods. Sometimes people can be so very tedious. 

He quietly tiptoes around the counters, satisfied that he’s eluded his pursuers. It’s a silly game, but Sherlock hates losing. Mycroft also hates losing, but he would never admit to it. 

There are all sorts of containers on one of the counters. Hm… Pulling out his phone, he turns on the flashlight, reading their contents written out on the aluminum lids. Spinach puffs, cheese-ham pinwheels, mushroom puff pastries, all sorts of cookies, pies, tarts – every baked good Sherlock could probably think of. Mycroft loves the creamy mushroom puffs, he vaguely remembers from childhood. Sneakily he purloins a few, puts them in a paper bag and dashes off to the sliding doors leading to the outdoor terrace to hide beneath the curtains. They are still warm and fresh. 

He isn’t alone. 

“... You aren’t missing anything, love. Just full of self-important fools who happen to be related. Even Henry brought someone home. You know that hat-detective… the one that jumped off that hospital was it – all those years ago. Turns out he’s also distantly related to us. Crazy world, huh?” 

It’s Lizzie’s voice. She had just walked into the kitchen, chatting on her phone – obviously not giving a fig if she gets caught out here or not.

She laughs lightly. “Oh you know… my eyes are always on you, lover boy. I don’t give a flying fuck about the boys here. There’s absolutely no need to be jealous – Oh! That’s all in the past. I’ve learned to appreciate what I have, you know. Darling.” 

There’s the sound of a chair being moved, and Lizzie sits down. “Trust me. I will tell Mummy eventually you know. About us. Oh. You’ve been so good to me, sweetie –”

Damn. She’s a loud conversationalist. Probably a good idea to leave. Sherlock slips away from the curtains, deciding to crawl his way to the kitchen counter. 

Lizzie doesn’t notice him. 

“You are going to laugh, but we are all currently playing a game of ‘Hide & Seek’. It’s utterly ridiculous isn’t it? Yes. Exactly, I like my boys more… mature. Henry has somehow managed to get everyone to play. I guess one doesn’t turn down the request of the son of Lord Worcester. I am sitting in the kitchen right now…”

Sherlock makes a run out. Along the way he notices Blanche who is hiding under the small dining table they keep in the corner of the kitchen. She has stolen a tart of some sort and is busy devouring it. 

_ Are you still there? SH _

_ No. I left for the Library. Couldn’t stand it, staying there. MH _

_ I have something for you. SH _

_ Oh? MH _

_ Courtesy of the kitchen staff. SH _

_ My pirate! MH _

_ You didn’t eat much during dinner. SH _

_ Admittedly I lost my appetite. MH _

_ For something that you are not, you are entirely too convincing. MH _

_ What can I say? I am a professional. SH _

***

Mycroft ends up meeting Sherlock in one of the ground floor loos. 

“Now people would really talk.” Sherlock smiles at him, handing over his ill-gotten gains. 

“What can possibly go wrong with two brothers in a bathroom?” Mycroft shrugs innocently. 

“Well, I am not staying to find out. Maybe another time.” Sherlock winks at him suggestively and proceeds to disappear. 

“Your loss.” Mycroft says after the door slams shut after Sherlock. 

He locks the door to the loo, washes his hands and sits down to enjoy the mushrooms puffs and the apple tart with a few slices of cheese that Sherlock had brought for him. 

This is absurd! But yet, Mycroft feels giddy and ridiculous in a way he’s never felt before. Like a teenage girl who had just been asked to dance with someone they liked. Sherlock had noticed his lack of appetite during dinner. Sherlock had stolen food for him! 

He wonders what sort of things had crossed Sherlock’s mind during their brief conversation. 

***

“Oh, you want to know about the ‘box’?” Henry asks in bewilderment when Sherlock approaches the topic after everyone had retired to their rooms. 

“Yes. Yifei mentioned it.”

“I haven’t left anything in it in years. Of course, it’s an old despatch box. Grandfather worked for the government back in the day, and brought one home when he retired. Blanche discovered it when we were ten in the library, and decided that it should be a secret amongst us. We used it to hide treats, trade letters – kinda like a mailbox of sorts.”

“Any security features?” 

Sherlock had seen these boxes before. Mycroft receives one every morning at the office. He’s seen them sitting on the corner of Mycroft’s desk at Whitehall. 

“Ah. No. You lot watch way too many spy films –”

Sherlock sighs. More like John watches way too many spy films and he becomes the forced audience. He’s rather lost his taste for them over the years as he’s had to play similar roles granted with far less glamorous settings, less fanciful tech and thankfully less simpering women. Plus he’s sure Mycroft’s has a few nifty security features that he’s never bothered to elucidate. 

“Just a key. But it’s usually kept unlocked…” Henry says thoughtfully. 

“How many keys are there?” 

“Two. I have one. And the other… To be frank, I have no idea. Maybe one of the girls. Or Evan.” Henry shrugs. He then yawns. “I think I am going to head off to the loo. I am beat. It was hard work catching you and your brother… he’s a lot faster than he looks –”

“Not much of a stuffed suit, hm?” Sherlock cannot help slipping out.

Henry laughs. “Ah – you two brothers! No, certainly – Mycroft is a lot more fit then he used to be as an adolescent. If I wasn’t so fond of you, maybe I might consider him as a – ouch!” 

“Off to the loo with you, Lord Dawlish!” Sherlock does his best impression of Parker to distract Henry from thinking too hard. “Other people are tired and cranky too!”

“Yes sah! Immediately sah!” Henry gives Sherlock a mock-salute and earns himself a pillow tossed in his direction. Laughing, he goes to the adjoining loo with a set of clean clothes in hand.

***

Sherlock wakes up, blinking. There’s something warm draped around him… oh. He isn’t alone. He had shared the bed with Hen-Hen last night. An arm curling possessively around him, as if Sherlock is a favourite toy of some sort. 

“Morning lover. Today’s the big day.” Henry mumbles. He then turns to look at Sherlock shrewdly. “Hm. I am hurt, Sherlock. I wonder who you are replacing me with in that mind of yours.”

“Maybe you should leave the deductions to me.” Sherlock says archly, turning away from his bedmate. 

“Nonsense. I know that look. You can always tell Brother Henry anything, you know!” 

Sherlock makes a dissatisfied noise, and rolls off the bed to head to the loo to prepare for the day. 

“Oh darling, we can’t start the day of with a disagreement –”

“I am accustomed to sleeping alone.” Sherlock says simply, as he shuts the door with a slam.

He can hear Henry say to himself. “Of course the detective can’t handle it when other people start to deduce him. Hmph.”

Damned nosy relatives! Sherlock thinks as he brushes his teeth. Can’t keep their bloody thoughts to themselves! And he still doesn’t know who Henry’s secret boyfriend is either. Would the man be here? At the party? Sherlock wonders. Henry doesn’t have a lot of shame for being the heir, but perhaps the other someone cannot be seen with him. Perhaps another person who is unwilling or unable to leave the closet. And hmph, he  _ was not  _ thinking about sharing a bed with Mycroft… Totally not thinking about how far that fur peeking out of his collar goes down to. Whether or not Mycroft would be a cuddler. Or would he be a total Iceman in bed? Or somewhere in between? Henry is a bloody octopus. 

Sherlock shakes his head ruefully. 

***

Brunch is served buffet-style, and Sherlock quickly helps himself to the goods. No one is here right now in the kitchen, except for the chef and his assistants, working to get all the food ready for the party. Henry is still preparing upstairs, primping. 

He walks to the doors leading out to the terrace. It’s a beautiful sunny day. Square tables had been brought out and draped with white tablecloths. Yifei is sitting at one of them, alone. 

So Sherlock moves to join him.

“Morning Sherlock.” Yifei nods, looking listless.

“Hello Yifei.” 

“I am sorry we didn’t get to talk privately last night. I didn’t realize that you came as Henry’s plus-one. That was… unexpected.”

“In what way?” Sherlock asks curiously, sipping at his tea.

“He well… never brings anyone, really.” Yifei then shrugs. “I am happy that he’s finally out of the closet, though. You know how trenched in tradition our people are.”

“Well… yes.” Sherlock can only imagine the long list of relatives that would disapprove of same-sex relationships and everything else that fell outside the scope of conventional. He doesn’t even know where his own parents’ opinion of the matter lies. Maybe he will find out today… his parents might come for this party to partake of the dancing. 

“Like for instance in 2012, one of the MPs introduced the Equality of Titles for Partners Bill… it would allow men who are married or civilly-partnered to titled spouses of either sex to receive honours or equivalent titles usually reserved for women. Didn’t even pass the first reading…” Yifei sighs, picking at his scrambled eggs. 

Sherlock makes a sandwich with toast, rashers, fried egg, tomato and a slice of cheese. He bites into it with a relish. He doesn’t really care about what happens politically. It’s all bollocks anyways, designed to keep the rich rich, and the poor poor. To be fair, money had never been an issue for him except during his dark druggie days, and he had always had Mycroft to bail him out of sticky situations… He wonders how Mycroft handles all this shit. Playing nice with all the piranhas and leeches in fancy suits and dresses. 

“Do you have the money?” Sherlock inquires, changing the topic before their privacy could be interrupted. 

Yifei nods. “I will go to the Library at thirty past midnight to drop it off in the box.”

“Are you sure this is something that you cannot go to your father for?” Sherlock asks. “You do know that even if we find out the identity of this blackmailer, they will continue to hold all the cards –”

“I’ve considered all the options, Sherlock. No. I can’t risk it. The truth, however beautiful it may be, cannot see the light of day. You must believe me.” Yifei says gravely. 

“I do not think you are telling me everything.” Sherlock finishes the last bit of his sandwich and starts dipping a ginger nut into his Earl Gray. “As much as I hate to say it, Yifei –”

“I am! You must believe me.” There’s almost a panicked look on Yifei’s face. “Oh. I can’t bear to bring dishonour to my parents. They’ve done so much for Blanche and I ever since our parents died. You don’t understand! And to know that it was my fault…”

“I cannot help you if I do not have all the facts, Yifei. Think upon it.” He then adds softly. “You know that I would be the last person to judge.” Sherlock stands up, bringing only his cuppa. “Good day, cousin.”

Sherlock walks back toward the kitchen, only to meet Mycroft stepping outside with a large mushroom pastry in his hand. 

It’s ridiculous, Sherlock thinks, when he feels his heart start beating just a little faster. 

“Morning Mycroft.” Sherlock says as he tries to get his nerves into some resemblance of order.

“Ah. Sherlock.” Mycroft offers a small smile. A special smile. To an outsider, they would notice nothing special, but Sherlock knows it is for him. “Care to join me? I thought I might tour the grounds considering that I missed the opportunity to do so yesterday.” 

“Afraid you would get lost?” Sherlock quirks an amused eyebrow. “In your old age?”

“You know that us old men are always in need of guidance.” Mycroft nods solemnly as his blue eyes twinkle.

“I would be happy to be of service.” Sherlock finds himself smiling like a fool, making sure that Yifei can’t see him.

***

Mycroft hadn’t intended to take a walk, but when he had seen Sherlock alone without Lord Dawlish in sight, he had jumped at the opportunity to have his brother for himself. He takes Sherlock to the Rose Garden – Lady Worcester’s pride and joy – for a stroll. His brother is uncharacteristically quiet. Shy almost. It’s May. Some of the flowers are in bloom, including the magnolias – adding vibrant colour to the peaceful surroundings. He wonders what Sherlock is thinking. And what case his brother is tackling. 

Who is the client for instance?

There are so many questions that Mycroft wants to ask, but he knows now is not the time to air them out. There are ears here. The last thing he wants is to jeopardize the nascent bloom that is their hard won relationship after so many years fraught with difficulty and hardship. 

“It’s so peaceful here.” Sherlock finally says as he examines a patch of colourful peonies, feeling that he ought to start the conversation, no matter how stupid he probably sounds. 

“Never would I have imagined that you would appreciate such a quality, brother dear.” Mycroft remarks, causing Sherlock to wince.

“Huh. Guess I never really gave you a moment’s peace, Myc –”

“It certainly wasn’t boring.” Mycroft quickly adds before Sherlock could start feeling guilty.

“No.” Sherlock sighs. “To tell you the truth, Mycroft – I don’t even know who I am anymore. I didn’t realize that I deleted so many parts of myself after Victor’s death. To think! That I deleted you…” He whispers the last bit. “You were so hurt when you came back home that summer and I ignored you like I did to everyone else.”

“Oh Sherlock, my only regret is that I couldn’t save you the pain. You didn’t deserve it –”

“Maybe I could have paid more attention to her…”

“She was beyond help, Sherlock. You were only a child.” Mycroft looks away, his eyes now fixated on the lilacs. “A sweet, harmless – dear little boy. You didn’t stand a chance. There was nothing you did wrong. I still examine those years, Lock – wondering if there was anything I could or should have done.”

Sherlock has the odd feeling that Mycroft’s eyes are filled with unshed tears, judging by the unexpected amount of pain in his voice. “Tell me a story. About something I did when I was a child.”

“There are so many. Those were happy days. I thought. There was the time where you brought home a robin’s egg. You had found it on the ground – intact. I told you to put it back, but you insisted on taking it to the barn and warming it with the old incubator. It miraculously hatched, and you were so happy. Of course, it was a busy time. We dug for worms as baby birds need to be fed frequently, and when Father realized what we had been doing – he bought us a box of mealworms so we didn’t have to go out digging for worms at all hours of the day –”

“Zephyr. That’s what we named him. He used to follow me around, asking for treats. And then one day, in the Fall – he flew away.” Sherlock finishes the memory. Gods. He remembers Mycroft and himself sneaking into the barn at all hours of the night, feeding their baby bird. Father had eventually caught them, despite his absent-mindedness. “You knew how much work it was going to be… but you still –”

“I would have done anything for you, Lock.” Mycroft says earnestly. “I adored you so much. She always hated it, that we were each other’s shadows –”

“It’s still true now.” Sherlock states. “Sherrinford. I am still mad at you for that. Trying to goad me into killing you, Mycroft. How dare you think that I could just end your life like that. I’ve killed, Mycroft – that’s not a secret – but you – you?!” His voice trembles.

“I deserved it. I thought. I let her ruin our lives once more. You deserved to live out life, happy –”

“And you thought my happiness could be achieved with John?” Sherlock whispers harshly. “Mycroft. Please. I could have never pressed the trigger –”

“You pointed it to yourself. Sherlock. If she hadn’t stopped you, you would have been dead… and so…” Mycroft swallows audibly. “Would I. So, little brother – I am mad at  _ you _ for pointing it to yourself.”

“You know what’s stupid? That we never considered that the bloody plane didn’t exist.” 

Mycroft chuckles softly. “Somehow, in family matters – adult children have a tendency to regress back to who they were as children. A rather interesting phenomenon.” 

“I am glad for one thing though.”

“And what is that, Lock?”

“That I remember. Everything. Especially my big brother.” Sherlock says, stopping to face Mycroft. 

His brother is still looking away toward the flowers, so he gently tugs at his arm – and he sees the shine in Mycroft’s eyes. That familiar tension is present again, compelling Sherlock to pull his brother closer, but he resists it – knowing that it is not the time. 

He hadn’t felt this with Henry, even though they had kissed. 

Sherlock had never been good at resisting his impulses, but he knows he has to learn. Especially with the delicate nature of their relationship. It’s precious, and knowing that Mycroft is willing to do this with him regardless of the consequences fills him with so much affection that it hurts. 

Caring is a disadvantage in that way. And Mycroft had tasted that agony for so long, that Sherlock isn’t surprised that Mycroft had adopted such a cold personality, only saving his warmth for Sherlock, no matter how horrid he had been. Hoping that one day Sherlock would return his regard in some way. It saddens him greatly to know that Mycroft had walked such a long lonely road. Wondering how desperate he had been for some sort of companionship – for release, that he had resorted to seeking out the goldfish to satisfy those baser needs.

“Don’t mourn for the past, Lock. It only gets in the way.” Mycroft says knowingly. 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but he continues walking, following the geometrically tiled pathway that snakes through the garden. There are so many flowers in this garden, and with a bit of thought, Sherlock can recall all their names. He had learned to categorize most of them in his youth, for Mummy had kept a beautiful garden at Musgrave. 

White dittany. He examines the white flowers, and pulls a small blade from his pocket to cut a blossom. 

“Think we could use a little less excitement.” Mycroft observes with dry amusement. “It’s thought to be an aphrodisiac.”

“Do I need to invest in some phosphodiesterase inhibitors, Mycroft?” Sherlock smirks. 

“I can assure you that there will be no problems in that department.” Mycroft says with the utmost dignity. “I might be older than you, Lock. But I am not dead.”

Sherlock says quietly to soothe any ruffled feathers. “I am sure you will take care of me. You’ve always done so to the best of your abilities, Mycroft. You were right, you know… all those years ago, but what little brother would dare to admit that they had no carnal knowledge in their thirties much less to their much more experienced older brother? I only hope that I don’t bore you.”

“That entire case was regrettable.” Mycroft replies. “There’s nothing wrong with inexperience, although I have to confess that I find it odd that you were never interested in that area at all.”

“That’s not true. I am interested now. But if you think that sort of thing is all I want, you are wrong, you know.” Sherlock clarifies, suddenly feeling rather nervous. 

Mycroft stops him, just before they reach the heart of the garden. He turns to and fro, checking for people, before he takes Sherlock’s hand in his own. His voice is fond in a way that Sherlock’s never heard it. “There’s no need to be nervous, Lock. I’ve seen you at your worst. And at your best. There’s no conventional blueprint for a relationship, Sherlock. Certainly not one like ours. Our lives… have been complicated. But those events of life and death – they are revealing, are they not? Of what really matters at the end?”

“That you have a heart, for one.” Sherlock whispers. 

His brother reaches upward to ruffle Sherlock’s curls as he had done when Sherlock had been a child. “It’s only been returned to me recently. I only hope it will stay.” 

Sherlock can only smile and wish that there is some other reasonable outlet to express his emotions. He walks further into the garden, where the rosebushes lie. Most of them are not in bloom, but there is one bush with roses wielding bluish-purple pigment, and he cuts a flower off.

“If Lady Worcester catches you cutting her prized hybrids, you will be banned from the premises.” Mycroft warns sternly. “That rosebush is one of a kind. Its flowers, priceless. It has been the ultimate dream to create a true blue rose and this is one of the –”

“It’s more mauve than blue, really.” Sherlock interrupts, not caring about the details. “Besides, I am a pirate.” He grins mischievously. “It’s my job to search for plunder. And obtain it through any means possible.” He presses the soft petals of the rose to his lips, and with a furtive glance around, he tucks it neatly into the buttonhole of Mycroft’s gray suit. “It suits you very well.” He adds admiringly after a moment’s appraisal. 

Mycroft tries to shoot him an exasperated look, but he fails miserably at it.


	6. The Party

“Fancy meeting you here, Mycroft.” Sherlock sees his brother for the first time since the party had started. 

Mycroft looks up from the display case of precious jade objects that the Chinese Ambassador had brought for show. He has tried his best to avoid watching Sherlock from afar, but old habits die hard. His brother had been dangling on the arm of Lord Dawlish for the past hour as the heir had circulated around the room, happy to flaunt his conquest in front of the crème de la crème of British society. 

“Likewise, little brother.” He says as neutrally as he can. 

“Here for the feast, I suppose? And here I thought you were doing so well with the new diet.”

Mycroft winces, finding himself reflexively sucking in his gut. They had agreed to keep to the old ways, considering that there was a good chance that their parents might show up for the dancing and dinner. But, it still hurts. And it sucks to see Sherlock so physically comfortable with another man. It’s hateful. Regardless of how fake the relationship is. It’s convincing. Their fond looks toward each other. The little kisses. Mycroft himself hadn’t even been bloody kissed by Sherlock. And how bloody good they looked together!

“What was it again?” Sherlock says with an amused air. “The see-food diet? Where you see it and you eat it?” 

“Very clever.” Mycroft says more snappishly than he had intended. “Where is your little boyfriend? You might as well get back to playing his trophy wife. Surprisingly, it suits you quite well.”

Sherlock frowns. Even if they both know that this is a farce, it’s obvious that the usual barbs are hurting his brother. He turns his neck slightly, looking at the elegant slim figure next to him – dressed in a beautifully (and tightly!) tailored charcoal suit fresh from Mycroft’s favourite tailor in Savile Row complete with a classic pocket square. 

They had both changed before the party had started. 

Does his brother really think that? That he isn’t attractive? That he even needs a diet? That Sherlock thinks he’s ugly? 

Fuck. It’s not like Sherlock had ever given him any reason to think so otherwise over the years. 

He can still remember Aunt Catty remarking to Aunt what’s-her-name… Forsythia(?) about how Violet needed to control her eldest’s eating habits, and about how positively dumpy Mycroft had been getting. Mycroft had been around fifteen then? A fragile age. He had found Mycroft later in the kitchen, eating through a large bowl of one of Mummy’s chocolate trifles. Looking utterly disheartened. 

Sherlock isn’t better than them… he realizes. 

But unfortunately, these are not thoughts he can give voice to as the small alcove is filled with ghastly people. He reaches for Mycroft’s wrist lying over the display case, needing to show some gesture of apology, but Mycroft abruptly moves his hand away when Sherlock touches him. 

The rejection hurts. Sherlock turns his attention to the treasures beneath the glass for the first time to assuage the pain. Not that he cares for such baubles, but it serves as a welcome distraction. He almost gasps when he sees a familiar hairpin – god! – the star of the case that John had called ‘The Blind Banker’! So it had been returned to its rightful owners then. 

Mycroft had walked away from him, voicing his observations to His Excellency about his little exhibit – adding just enough to showcase his knowledge regarding the Han and Qing dynasties and the intricacies of producing such works of art during each respective period. He also mentions the few objects that had been recently repatriated back to China that had been kept previously kept at the British Museum. A touchy subject as their countrymen have been pillaging the world and bringing its finest treasures back to ole Blighty for centuries. And now, the British government receives requests daily about returning the artifacts they had stolen from other countries.

It’s bloody attractive how smart big brother is, and Sherlock feels that he could just go on listening to him all day long. 

Of course, pre-Sherrinford him had always resented his brother’s superior intelligence and knowledge, but now Sherlock realizes that all he had wanted all along was his brother’s respect. His brother’s eyes however seem to dart around, and Sherlock realizes that his brother is subtly watching the two men and one woman who are guarding and regaling their audiences with the stories and histories associated with these treasures. They are members of the Chinese Ambassador’s personal staff. 

Hm. Interesting. Big brother has an ulterior motive for being here. For holding this delightful conversation which has completely engrossed the Ambassador.

Sherlock decides to linger over the jade. It would be an amusement to figure out what his brother seems to be watching for. Maybe he can find a way to make it up to his brother. It’s not like he has anything better to do at the moment, considering that there isn’t really anything he can do about the blackmail case until Yifei tells him the truth, or when developments continue. Sherlock has a few suspects in mind, but he will know for sure later.

He hates this. There’s no way they can continue playing this ‘bickering brothers’ charade if feelings continue being hurt. And Sherlock is tired of hurting his brother like this. Mycroft deserves being told that he’s handsome and gorgeous. That he’s the only one that Sherlock finds sexually attractive. That Sherlock utterly adores him, like he had done when he had been a child, just now – with a whole different manner of appreciation. 

One of the staff members turns to look at a newcomer. Someone that Henry had pointed out earlier to him. Sir Percival. A man with an interesting reputation. Who had friends in high places. A man who liked to party. And had a taste for the illicit. A sleazy sort of man with an irresistible charisma for those blind to his faults. The type that Sherlock expects to wrangle when dealing with despicable things like child pornography rings. Sherlock isn’t even sure why he had been knighted all those years ago. Perhaps he should ask Henry. Maybe for actions in a bygone war. He notices Mycroft’s eyes briefly scan over the man, as His Excellency greets him effusively. 

Sir Percival bows, and Sherlock could see it. Hand gestures behind his back. A modified form of American Sign Language. ‘Two hours from now’. Hm. One of the staff members had noticed it. A Chinese man who seems rather jittery. Sherlock had chalked it up earlier to a nervous disposition or a drug habit, but perhaps there’s a game afoot. Sir Percival now walks over to examine the jade artifacts, and Sherlock decides now is the time to make himself scarce – 

“Sherlock! Lock!” 

A child runs up to him to his utter surprise. And then he mentally groans. Children were like cats. They always manage to sense when and where they were unwanted and had the uncanny ability to place themselves there. This one was Kitty, the grand-daughter of Aunt Forsythia. One of the few children that had never been put off by Sherlock’s demeanor, but rather… enjoyed it. He hadn’t known that Kitty was coming to the do, considering the gossip that her mother was having a health crisis and had declined her invitation.

“What do you want, Kitty?” He sighs when she clings onto his leg. 

“Imogen said you would be here. And that you have a boy-friend! Ooh! And that he’s handsome! I didn’t know two boys could… be together.”

Her bright eyes look up at him, and Sherlock pets her blonde curls, squatting down to meet her at eye-level. The gossip is clearly making its rounds. But considering that Kitty actually looks up to him, Sherlock knows that it's his responsibility to show her that there are more possibilities to love than the traditional husband and wife model. God knows that she certainly won’t learn it from her mother or Aunt Catty. “Of course two men can. As long as two people like each other enough, Kit – they can be together.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“That’s not what Aunt Catherine says.” She frowns. “She said it was an abomination. And that Henry was unfit –”

“You know, Kit, about how people say silly things? Well. Adults do too, you see. As you get older, you will see that there are lots of things that people say that don’t make sense in our world. It’s up to  _ you _ to make it make sense.” 

Before Kitty could ask another question, Sherlock is interrupted. 

“Oh, Sherlock – darling… there you are.” Henry sweeps into the space in his casual manner. “And Kitty! It’s lovely to see you again!” He turns toward Sherlock and exclaims after bowing to their little cousin. “I’ve been looking for you! The dancing is about to start in a few minutes, and we must have the first dance together! Kitty, if I may take your man away from you?”

Kitty giggles – blushing a bit, and relinquishes her hold on Sherlock. “Course, Henry. He’s all yours!”

“Hm, and I thought that you said that men had cooties the last time we met! You wouldn’t even hug me!” Henry remarks, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

“But I am grown up now and got my cootie shot! So I am safe from icky man germs.” 

“Alright then. Sherlock?” Henry offers his arm after sharing an amused glance with Sherlock.

“Of course, Hen-Hen.” Sherlock gives Lord Dawlish a somewhat legitimate smile. He loves to dance, and so does Henny apparently – so he goes readily, completely missing the split-second look of despondence in Mycroft’s eyes.

***

“Oh, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock and Henry halt their waltz part way when Mummy comes sailing up to them with Father in tow, attired in their finest clothes. 

“It’s lovely to see you, dear. And who is this? Ah. Lord Dawlish! How you’ve grown!” 

Sherlock catches Henny wincing. How much exactly a grown man can grow since the last time Mummy has seen him? They aren’t exactly children anymore! 

“Ah, Aunt Violet! Uncle Siger – it’s a pleasure.” Henry grabs Violet's hand and places a gentlemanly kiss upon it. “Sherlock did mention that you two may show up today. I am glad you could both make it.”

So Mummy and Father have decided to brush their conflict about sister dear under the rug then. Typical. Well… at least in front of the illustrious public. Sherlock frowns as he examines his aging parents. 

Henry seems to sense his unease, and rests a hand comfortingly over Sherlock’s hip. 

“Oh! Are you two… together?” Mummy asks, her eyes shining with something akin to… hope(?).

“Why, yes! It happens that we have both mutually decided to come out of the closet today, haven’t we – darling?” 

“Indeed.” Is all what Sherlock could manage. He will never hear the end of it now, and no doubt Mummy would want him to bring his fake-boyfriend around… 

“How lovely!” Violet claps her hands together in delight. 

“I was wondering why you were here, son.” His Father actually speaks for once. “This isn’t quite your locale, but of course – the things we do for the ones we love. We are happy for you – Sherlock!” He gives a hearty clap to Sherlock’s back.

“Oh Violet! I didn’t think you were coming!” 

Both Sherlock and Henry share a pained look as Aunt Catty descends upon them. 

“Catherine! It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Oh, didn’t you know that Lord Dawlish and Sherlock are an item?”

“Oh yes, what a –”

“Delight!” Violet finishes firmly, even if it’s evident that Aunt Catty had some other sort of adjective at the tip of her tongue, judging by the sour look on her face. “It’s lovely! Considering that our nation worked so hard to legalize same-sex marriage just a few years back! I have no doubt Lord Dawlish will set a much needed example to the public at large.” She then tuts sympathetically to Sherlock. “It’s a shame that things didn’t work out with John then? I had so looked forward to having a granddaughter.”

“No, Mummy – we were –” Sherlock begins to say, but is helplessly interrupted when Lady Worcester appears in her stylish gown and those lustrous pearl strands that Lizzie and Lorelei had been squealing over about the day before. 

“Oh Violet! How wonderful to see Siger and yourself! I am so glad you could join us!”

There are more pleasantries being exchanged, before Mummy says eagerly. “Oh, think about it, Lady Worcester – our families could be intertwined even further in the future! A –”

“What a capital idea! I’ve been telling Henry that he needs to be thinking about marriage –”

“God save us all.” Henry mutters darkly to himself, only audible to Sherlock. He gently grabs onto Sherlock’s hand again, and starts leading him away.

“Oh, where is that brother of yours?” Mummy stops them from fleeing. “I know he’s here somewhere. Always has his mind on his work – that Mycie of mine!”

“I have no idea.” Sherlock does not divulge the fact that Mycroft is now over at the far corner, talking to one of the lesser Royals that had shown up. “Probably standing next to the appetizer trays at the front –”

“Sherlock! For shame, can you grow up just once?” Mummy glares at him. “Your brother has been –”

Sherlock winces, but at least it seems that Mummy has forgotten that she is angry at Mycroft over Eurus. He could feel himself fall lower into the gloom, as he remembers how Mycroft and he had ended their last conversation. 

“Why don’t you go dance with your brother for the next set?” Henry immediately interrupts – evidently wanting out of this tedious conversation. 

“What?!” Sherlock turns his head so quickly that he feels that he had pulled a muscle. “I couldn’t possibly do that. Never. Mycroft and me? Dance?” He scoffs. 

“That’s a wonderful idea, Lord Dawlish! What a lovely suggestion to get my boys to make peace!” Mummy smiles radiantly at Henny. “Oh, and here he comes –” 

Sherlock turns his head a little further to see his brother making a beeline for their little group, no doubt wanting to get the pleasantries over with their parents. Mycroft looks rather like a man paying his annual visit to the dentist.

“Mycroft.” Lady Worcester takes over. “Why don’t you take your brother for the next set? I never get to see you let loose whenever you are here –” 

Aunt Catty has a smirk on her face, evidently entertained by what is going on. Of course everyone in the family knows the state of Sherlock’s relationship with his brother (well, before Sherrinford at least), and she is delighted at the prospect of Sherlock making a fool of himself. 

His brother has a baffled expression on his face, but Sherlock knows that he wouldn’t dare turn down such a simple request from his host. 

“If that is what you wish, Lady Worcester.” Mycroft bows, and like the courteous being he is, extends a hand in invitation. 

Sherlock shoots a glare at Henry – he doesn’t know if he wants to throttle his cousin or kiss him for this opportunity. Hen-hen only takes a step closer to him and gently pushes him out to his brother, whispering. “Go on then.” 

Reluctantly (but actually shyly) Sherlock takes the proffered hand. 

There is an indecipherable look in Mycroft’s blue eyes, but Sherlock finds himself being swept onto the floor when the next set begins – a brisk foxtrot. Sherlock has never danced with his brother, but Mycroft is evidently accomplished, as he is with almost everything he tries. 

Dancing with Henry had been fun – they’ve developed a camaraderie akin to brotherhood over the last few days. But dancing with Mycroft – there is a barrier somewhere between them, preventing their organic connection with one another. 

It’s as if Mycroft is giving him the cold shoulder – or is this a display of hiding the truth of their relationship from everyone else? It leaves Sherlock with an icy feeling within. He wants to break away and just hide somewhere and cry, but he knows he can’t. He refuses to be fodder for Aunt Catty’s maliciousness. And he can’t fail his brother either and leave him hanging – knowing that there are now many eyes upon them. The days of publicly bratty Sherlock are gone. 

Their relationship is so nascent that they haven’t even defined it. It is fragile too. A secret that they would have to keep for themselves for the rest of their lives. His friends cannot know it. Mummy and Father cannot realize it. And going to such a party like this… could it destroy whatever it is they are to each other before they could even have a chance to explore it? 

The song they are dancing to has reached its slower part. Although Sherlock does not recognize the tune, he intrinsically knows it’s close to the end of this dance. 

Sherlock almost gasps when Mycroft brings him close. So close that their torsos are touching and Sherlock is fighting the urge to bury his face against Mycroft’s shoulder. Somehow it hurts, knowing that he would never have the privilege of doing so in public. All these considerations that Sherlock had never thought of come to mind, realizing what it truly meant to have a love that could never see the light of day. Just as the set comes to an end, Mycroft surprisingly reaches up to brush his fingers tenderly through Sherlock’s curls, and he says quietly. 

“Courage, brother mine.” 

His brother lets him go when the last note of the song fades away, and Sherlock could only watch as Mycroft walks away to dutifully greet their parents. And he – well – slinks off into the shadows, not wanting to talk to anyone in particular. He brushes the dorsum of his hand over his eyes once he’s out of view from everyone, attempting to wipe away his unshed tears.

***

“Guess you are sick of the party too, hm?” 

Sherlock looks up to see Blanche, dressed in a simple emerald gown, walk up to him. Surprisingly, she sits down next to him in his little hidden alcove after kicking off her heels, mimicking the way Sherlock sits – with her arms wrapped around her knees. 

They sit in mutual silence for quite some time before Blanche decides to speak. “When I was younger, I used to sneak off to the barn during Father’s parties and take Poseidon out for a gallop around the grounds. But Mum found out a few years later and gave me such a scolding for disappearing that I never dared to do it again. It’s improper, she says.”

“Ah, propriety.” Sherlock waves his hand lazily. “It’s all utter tosh to keep us in line.” 

Blanche smiles at him. “I like you. You are at least… yourself. Authentic. Everyone else is caught up with their image. Their wealth. Their self-importance. It’s disgusting. I am happy and thankful that Lord and Lady Worcester took us in, but there are definitely some facets of the lifestyle that I could do without. I know mum would want me to marry one of our titled connections and organize events and charities like she does, but frankly – that isn’t for me. Sylvia though – Evan’s wife – she’s all about that. And that’s good for her that she found her niche and the love of her life, but me… even the humdrum of the A&E at St. Thomas isn’t enough sometimes. I get –”

“Bored.” Sherlock offers.

“Oh, am I boring you?” Blanche actually smirks. 

“Maybe a little.” Sherlock can afford to be kind. “But that’s not –”

“What you meant.” Blanche finishes. “I know. But you looked like you could use a distraction.” 

“Yeah.” Sherlock nods, wishing that he had a cigarette to smoke at this very moment. Why did he quit again? “You can continue, you know – from where you left off. I do know about boredom. Although… these days I feel more lost than bored…”

“Same.” Blanche draws up her knees closer to her chest. She admits. “The last time I felt like I was doing something right with my life was when I was in West Africa. I went against Mum’s back and volunteered for Médecins Sans Frontières. I didn’t tell her until my plane landed! This was back a few years. 2014. Ebola was the enemy. Tents, limited protective equipment, people bleeding from every possible orifice, deadly infectious secretions, the mosquitoes – hell! I even got bloody kidnapped once by insurgents – but we managed to make it out okay at the end. Mum doesn’t know that fact. So many people died, but the ones that lived… ah.” She trails off, clearly reliving her memories. “I loved it. Thinking on the spot. Never knowing what tomorrow would bring. The camaraderie amongst us all! And then when I went back –”

“Everything didn’t feel right.” Sherlock says quietly. 

“You know then. What it is like.”

He nods. “Being at war. You know… those years when I went away after jumping off the roof –”

“Oh I know about that. The roof that is. But… you went on a mission then? Of sorts?” Blanche asks. She then nods, accepting her deduction without even looking at Sherlock. “I never thought of what you did during the years you were gone. People kind of just accepted that you were back without knowing the story behind it. The modern day Lazarus.”

“Yeah. It wasn’t easy. Being back. I am still… dealing with it. I didn’t handle it well. Not at all. I don’t miss it like you do, but sometimes… I just don’t know myself anymore. And then my best friend – he hated me for it. That I lied to save his life. And I was so stupid over him, Blanche. I was so desperate to cling onto the life that I had left… that I neglected everything else in it.”

“This is John Watson then? I’ve seen the tabloids.” She raises a brow. “You two weren’t –”

“No. Never.” Sherlock decides that’s enough sharing for now. He then asks. “Why don’t you sign on for another mission?” 

“I ask myself this every day. But do you know what keeps me from going?”

“What?” 

“My brother. Yifei. He’s… I don’t know what to say. There’s no words that describe what we mean to each other. It’s a ‘twin’ thing, I think. And having our parents die when we were barely of age to understand what death was. We had to rely on each other! And Yifei – he would never leave England, let alone his books! He should have been a professor of literature, but he adores Father and decided to help him with his work by studying law and finance. I don’t know. I don’t like leaving him, but some days the tediousness of everyday life makes me want to scream. He didn’t like me going the first time – but I think I will leave for a second trip. Soon.” 

“You have to live your life.” He says after a beat with caution.

“Perhaps.” Blanche shakes her head reluctantly. 

There is the distant sound of a gong, signalling the beginning of dinner. 

Sherlock stands up and helps his cousin up. Blanche gives him a fond smile, and says. “Thanks for listening to me. There’s really no one else I could have told this to.”

Sherlock nods. 

“Your melancholy…” Blanche whispers shrewdly. “It’s because of your brother – isn’t it? I think you like him more than you let on.” 

“I’ve treated him terribly throughout the years, and he’s done nothing to deserve it.” Sherlock finds himself saying. 

“Oh, Sherlock. Take it from an older sister. He would forgive anything you’ve done. I saw you two dance earlier. He cares for you… very much.” 

She gives him a warm embrace. At first Sherlock had been rattled that Blanche had sussed out their secret, but she clearly meant it in a platonic manner. There would be more disgust, wouldn’t it? And no hug? And her impression of his dance with Mycroft? Sherlock had found it cool and unfeeling, but she had seen something. 

Hm… 

He finds himself liking this cousin of his. 

Not all of his relatives are ghastly at least. 

“Thanks Blanche.” Sherlock offers his arm, and like an old-age gentleman, he escorts her to dinner after she has put her heels back on.

***

“I… I wanted to apologize.” 

Sherlock and Henry had managed to sneak off after dinner, just as people are starting to leave. They are in a quiet little room that resembles a study of some sort, but it doesn’t appear to belong to anyone, considering the lack of personal effects. 

“About what?” Sherlock asks curiously.

“Making you go dance with your brother. I didn’t realize that… it would upset you so. I just… couldn’t stand it. Our Mums talking about weddings and whatnot. It’s something basic… that I can never have…” Henry sighs, looking away from Sherlock – his gaze fixated on an empty shelf. 

“Your boyfriend is that deep in the closet?” Sherlock inquires cautiously. “I am sure there are even Royals that are actively gay, not that I am an expert about the subject.”

“It would ruin his career. Destroy his family.” Henry says frankly. He eyes the closed door again before saying softly. “No. Our relationship is doomed to remain in the closet. We’ve been talking recently, you know – of beards.”

“And this is where I came in?” Sherlock finds himself curious, considering his own personal situation. 

“Yes. You caught my attention when Aunt Catty couldn’t stop talking about you the other week, and I thought… heck – why not? And I’ve been feeling badly about it, you know – how I treated all my non-titled relatives in the past. Particularly you.”

“How did you know I would agree?” 

“I didn’t.” Henry then smiles. “You did kick me out.”

“So I did.” Sherlock finds himself grinning.

Henry laughs. “Ah.” He then sighs glumly. “I thought I was over that. The whole marriage thing, but… evidently not. Mother. She means well, but it touched a very sore spot.” He then changes the topic abruptly. “Your parents left.”

“Did they now?” Sherlock had actively avoided them since the dance, figuring that greeting them in the flesh is already above and beyond expectations. 

“Apparently they needed to leave so they could go catch a line-dancing competition tomorrow. You mother… wanted to invite us over to their place at Christmas. Even though it is half a year away… But, anyways, speaking of beards, I was wondering –”

“If I would continue this charade with you?” Sherlock finishes the sentence for him. 

“Yeah. Mummy would be heartbroken if we broke it off so soon.” 

“Could I let you know… after the party?”

“It’s not a ‘no’ then. I will take it.” Henry smiles at him. “Thank you Sherlock. This means a lot to me.” 

“Won’t you divulge the secret –”

“No. It’s safest if no one knows. Not even my siblings know.” 

“I am sorry.” Sherlock finds himself uncharacteristically apologizing. 

Henry waves an arm. “It is what it is. And I am sincerely sorry for everything else. Come. Sherlock. Kiss me, and we will go back to the Drawing Room.”

***

“Coffee?” 

“No thank you, Parker – not tonight.” Mycroft shakes his head at the butler as he walks to offer his beverages to everyone else in the Drawing Room. 

He’s sitting alone on a couch, while Lord Cavendish, Lord Dawlish, his brother and Lorelei are busy playing bridge. At the very least, Sherlock and his fake boo aren’t bloody canoodling on the couch like they had done earlier, but he oddly suspects that the two of them are playing footsie beneath the table, using the connection to send each other illicit messages regarding the game at hand. 

Yifei had sat down at the pianoforte (no doubt told off by Lady Worcester for hiding in the Library for a large portion of the party) with his books and is playing a little Debussy. Lord Worcester is standing next to the fireplace, holding a quiet conversation with His Excellency and Sir Percival while his personal staff had started their game of cards. Blanche is talking with Lizzie, Aunt Catty, one of their great aunts (Great Aunt Magda), her teenage granddaughter Imogen and Lady Worcester at the other end of the room. Young cousin Katherine is with them, attempting to do some embroidery. She glances often at Sherlock and holds a conversation with Imogen, whom she has familiarity with. Evan and his heavily pregnant wife had decided to call it a night and had disappeared upstairs to their private chambers.

Mycroft is still trying to puzzle out why Sherlock came here. He cannot find a reason, and Sherlock had been tight-lipped about it. Whatever it is, it must be a compelling case to get Sherlock to endure this side of their family. 

It’s certainly not to be with Lord Dawlish. The man has interests elsewhere, although Mycroft cannot quite pinpoint who. There are whispers in the tabloids that his Lordship has a lover, but no one had ever been able to discern who. A minor royal? A foreigner? A member of the government? Rumors were plentiful, but nothing concrete has ever manifested. Mycroft isn’t one for the tabloids, but he had been casually browsing them on his phone ever since Sherlock had shown up with Lord Dawlish as his choice of pseudo-paramour. 

Fine.  _ Let’s assume that Sherlock’s reason for being here has nothing to do with his Lordship. _ Mycroft examines the room carefully. It looks like the end of the night to any old-fashioned party amongst close family members. Nothing really stands out. Yifei has switched to some grim Rachmaninoff now – 

“Yifei – could you play something cheerier – please?” Lady Worcester walks over to her son, and Mycroft could hear his cousin sigh and switch to some Mozart. 

“Thank you, darling.” 

“Oh, Lady Worcester?” 

“Yes Lizzie?”

“Would you grant me a silly favour?” 

“What is it my dear?”

“May I… may I wear your pearl strands to bed? It would make me feel like  _ such _ a princess. I promise I will return them tomorrow. Please?” 

“Oh, but of course – Lizzie. Just be careful not to get them wet or dirty.”

Mycroft winces when his cousin squeals with girlish delight when Lady Worcester takes off her ludicrously expensive pearls and carefully places it around her niece’s neck. He does note their luster under the lighting. A sheen worth several million pounds. 

“Oh, you are my favourite aunt, Lady Worcester. I still remember when you let me wear that diamond tiara when I went to my first ball! Thank you!” 

“Flattery will get you everywhere, my girl. I am glad  _ someone  _ has an interest in the family treasures.” Even if she didn’t intend to, Lady Worcester glances quickly over to Blanche – who has absolutely no interest in jewelry. 

Mycroft shakes his head. Indeed, these get-togethers are always so tedious. Before he could ponder further about Sherlock’s motives for being here – he is called over by Lord Worcester to discuss the merits and demerits of the Cultural Revolution.

**Much later...**

Mycroft walks through the hallway with the intent of going to the kitchen for a glass of water. Perhaps he had one too many tumblerfuls of scotch because he feels rather parched. 

“Oh, you’ve been so good to me, sweetie –”

_ Ah, why has that particular portion of the family been blessed with such air capacity? Or rather… a voice that carries so well through solid wooden doors!  _ Mycroft wonders as he walks by Lizzie’s room. 

“I will make it up to you when I get home, promise. Oh yeah – baby, for sure.”

Mycroft walks just a little faster when he hears kissing noises. 

“Oh, I’d like that, darling. Oh yes!”

There is the sound of a little salacious moan heralding some omnious phone sex, and he beats it – rushing as quickly to the stairs without making his footfalls too loud against the antique flooring.

***

“It’s already two.” Yifei whispers to Sherlock. “And no one has come!”

“We might as well go to bed then, Yifei. No point in staying up all night.”

“But… the money!” 

“I took the liberty of rigging the despatch box with a tiny bug. It will catch whoever opens the box.” Sherlock reassures his client. 

It had been one of the bugs that Mycroft had bugged his Baker Street flat with. Sherlock had amassed a small collection over the years. Contrary to Mycroft’s knowledge, Sherlock hadn’t thrown out every piece of spyware that his meddling big brother had left behind. Only the ones that he couldn’t repurpose for his own use. One never knew when a well-placed bug could prove useful. 

“It’s dark though…” Yifei attempts to hide a yawn.

“Which is why it has infrared capabilities. Yifei… just go to bed. It’s been an arduous day.”

“Tell me about it! Alright then, goodnight.” Yifei stands up from their huddled position next to a marble bust near the entrance of the Library and disappears down the dimly lit hallway. 

Hm… why hasn’t the bloody blackmailer come yet? 

Sherlock makes a displeased noise before opting to go grab a calming cuppa from downstairs before going to bed.

***

“Fancy seeing you here, brother. Going back to your old childhood habit of raiding the larders?” 

Sherlock is surprised to see Mycroft sitting at the small table in the kitchen. He has a mug of tea in hand, and is munching on some salt & vinegar crisps. Clad in his silk pyjamas. It’s practically two in the morning! He makes his own tea with the leftover hot water from the kettle and a chamomile tea bag, before joining his brother at the table.

“And what are you doing up so late, Sherlock?” Mycroft arches an inquisitive eyebrow as he scrutinizes his brother. “You haven’t even gone to bed! I am sure Lord Dawlish is missing your warm presence under the sheets.”

They both cringe at Mycroft’s words. 

“I told him I felt restless. That I needed to walk it off before going to bed. He said. ‘Suit yourself!’ and promptly fell asleep.”

“Certainly you didn’t drug him, did you?”

“Mycroft, how could you even suggest such an abominable idea! No, the only factors involved was too much alcohol and an exhausting day!” 

They both share a look, considering Sherlock’s track record with spiked drinks. A reminder of that dark Christmas over a year ago where he had spiked the punch. Killed a blackmailer. Or rather an old-age parasite. 

> Not a dragon for you to slay. 

Mycroft had said, but Sherlock, of course, had gone for it. Perhaps… there could have been another way, but at that time Sherlock would have done anything for his old friend…

“Why are you here, Sherlock?” Mycroft sighs after placing down his mug. 

“Why are  _ you  _ here?” Sherlock looks pointedly at his brother. “As far as I know, you  _ like _ your beauty sleep whenever you can get it.”

“Is this just a roundabout way of calling me both fat and lazy, Lock?” Mycroft huffs. 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock slumps down on the table. He lets it all out. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I can’t. I am tired of bickering with you –”

“Ah. So you have finally lost interest in me…”

“No. Mycroft…” Sherlock looks at his brother hopelessly – wishing that they could just be well… home. Where they could actually have a frank conversation without someone stumbling upon them. Instead of trying to convey what they mean in jibes and circular conversations that go nowhere. 

That scene in the rose garden seems so long ago! 

He sighs when Mycroft ensnares his leg with his. An affectionate touch. His brother is wearing that ‘Iceman’ poker face again. Sherlock hates the expression. It seems that they are both being tight-lipped with secrets. Hm… is the reason why big brother is up related to that exchange he had seen in the alcove involving Sir Percival? He had completely forgotten about it after that dance he had with Mycroft, his mind too distracted by other matters. 

“You will be in the tabloids again, little brother.” Mycroft changes the topic.

“What?” 

“It’s not very  _ traditional _ for two men to be dancing together, let alone be openly out in the elite spheres occupied by our relatives. Scandalous even. As private as Lord Worcester likes to believe his parties are, there are certainly people of a certain calibre that were here who will sell their gossip and even photos to the rags without a second thought. Lady Worcester is rather  _ progressive _ in her views of things and it won’t be the first time that one of her ideas causes a sensation in the news.”

“We danced too.” Sherlock says dumbly, not looking forward to being a newsworthy item again. 

John had loved the fame that came with their high-profile cases and his blog, but Sherlock had always found it a nuisance. He preferred privacy, and would happily solve cases without the fame and without credit as he had done before with Lestrade. It had been John who had insisted that Sherlock be known for his exploits and he had gone along with it, of course. Happy to make his flatmate happy.

“It is forgettable.”

“I will never forget it.” Sherlock looks up at his brother, meeting his eyes. 

“It wasn’t… us.” 

The last word comes out barely audible. Pained. The mask comes off a little for a second, and Sherlock could see some of the feelings he had felt earlier mirrored in Mycroft’s irises.

Sherlock tightens his grasp of Mycroft’s leg in comfort. This would be something they would have to face in the future. Time and time again. They would have to hide the truth. Play the roles as they’ve always had. Hopefully with less venom over time. 

> Our relationship is doomed to remain in the closet. 

Henry had described it, and certainly so was theirs.

“It will be worth it.” Sherlock refuses to let the pessimism of it all catch up to him. 

Mycroft doesn’t speak. His leg slides against Sherlock’s own, and Sherlock can feel that familiar heated feeling travel up his body. They simply look at each other for who knows how long, until the sound of footsteps forces them both out of their respective trances. 

Sherlock laments the loss of Mycroft’s leg against his, as Blanche strides toward them. 

She’s wearing a pair of slim-fitting jeans, and an oversized t-shirt. Her hair is held in a loose ponytail, a contrast to the stylish updo she had worn earlier. She nods at them, before heading off to rummage to kitchen cupboards.

“The bed beckons.” Mycroft stands up reluctantly, heading to the sink with his cup and plate. 

“Good night then, brother. I will see you… tomorrow.” Sherlock looks at his tea mug, and starts drinking his now lukewarm tea. 

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, your support is greatly appreciated :) feel free to discuss in the comments! <3


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